


One More Hand Me Down

by 1001cranes



Category: Bandom, Dollhouse, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Used
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humans known as Dolls can be implanted with false memories and skills for various jobs, from sex to assassinations. When without an Imprint, they exist in a state of <i>tabula rasa</i> -- a “blank slate” of childlike innocence and naivety. Though Beckett runs the Dollhouse with an iron hand, he has much to contend with; Dolls growing more and more self-aware, a Programmer in love with one of his canvases, a rogue Handler, and a dangerously fragmented Doll intent on destroying the Dollhouse and all those attached to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. someday they'll open up your world

**Author's Note:**

> -I stole “thirteen-thirteen” from The Unusuals.  
> -Each section heading is a line from Matchbox Twenty’s song Hand Me Down.

Bob does ten years with the Chicago PD right out of high school, just like his old man. He’s a good cop. He goes through two partners kind of quick, but the third one sticks so no one says anything. He does his work, clocks in when he’s supposed to - maybe clocks out a little late sometimes, but not in any way his Captain’s going to bother with. He’s a good cop, maybe one of the best at his precinct. He puts in his years in Detective and he’ll be on his way to Sergeant, maybe.

That all disappears when a perp takes a metal pipe to Bob’s wrists during a collar. _Crunch_. Precinct lore says right after that Bob tackled the scumbag to the ground so Schechter could read him his rights, but Bob only remembers the crunching noise, in all honesty. He wakes up in the hospital two days later, fuzzy with post-surgery morphine. Schechter’s there, and his mom. Both of them looking like they’re at a wake.

It ends up that his wrists are fucked. Puzzle pieces of bone the doctors mostly manage to put back together, strapped into place with metal screws and plates. They think he’ll be okay, at first. Bob’s physical therapist is relentlessly cheerful, and when the cheerfulness runs out he’s just plain relentless. Bob gets most of the movement back in his wrists, most of the range of motion. He has some good days. Some. But mostly it’s bad days. Mostly he hurts. He has a hard time pouring a cup of coffee, much less writing reports, much less snapping cuffs on a perp. He could stay on a desk job, but that’s not for him. He’d go absolutely fucking stir crazy, and worse, he couldn’t stand the looks people would give him.

So he accepts the retirement with disability, as much as that stings, and everyone throws him a party even though there’s nothing to celebrate. Schechter gets as drunk as hell, and Bob tells him not to worry. Bob puts his brave face on. He does his exercises, uses hot and cold presses, gets his cortisone injections. He does everything he’s supposed to do, and it’s still not enough. He still can’t stop feeling useless.

When the call comes, it’s a relief to say yes.

| |

The man who greets Bob is tall and very thin. Sharp features and graceful hands. Expensive suit, and in good taste too. Doesn't come from money, Bob's willing to bet, but suited to it now all the same. Wants to prove he deserves it. Would cut down anyone in his way of getting it. Probably Beckett.

There's a blond man standing behind him, to his left. Watching Beckett's every move with the kind of obsessive dedication that suggests a bodyguard, or lover. Maybe Beckett's security. There's another man to Beckett's right. Smaller. Daintier, even. Covered in tattoos beneath his suit, and paying attention to absolutely nothing. This is a guy who's killed people. Often. Not necessarily security, in a place like this.

Bob can't over the knee-jerk skin crawling reaction that gives him, that this whole place gives him. Only he’s going to have to get over that.

“Welcome to the Dollhouse, Mr. Bryar. You come highly recommended." Beckett's handshake is short, firm, no-nonsense.

“So this place _is_ real," Bob says, mostly to himself. As if he didn’t already know. He signed the confidentially agreements, he was fully debriefed, but actually _seeing_ it is something else.

Bob’s lived in Chicago his whole life. He’s heard the rumors about the Dollhouse since he was in grade school. His _mother_ grew up hearing the rumors. The Dollhouse is everyone's favorite kind of urban legend – ridiculous, completely unbelievable, and the kind that just doesn’t die.

“The stories are true, then," he continues. "Programmable people, made to order.” Programmed into doing whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. No matter what the job. As a cop, Bob had heard more than a few half-assed stories trying to pin crimes on the Dollhouse. Kill orders, some of the larger heists. All the cops had. Dollhouse "cases" always made the best stories for retelling later.

Now, Bob wonders if any truth had been attached to them. It’s doubtful, and yet – now he wonders.

Beckett's mouth twists. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Figured.” These days, Bob needs a manual just to call someone on his cell. Who knows how the fuck you program people.

“If you’ll follow me this way,” Beckett continues, “I’ll take you to meet Dr. Wentz. He can explain the Programming process for you, if you like.”

Bob’s really all right with not knowing.

| |

Beckett introduces Bob to Dr. Wentz, who – if Bob’s being honest – seems more like a punk college student tripping on meth. Who got dressed in the dark. And didn’t have any decent clothes to begin with. He gives Bob a hug instead of shaking his hand, and ushers Bob into his office, which doesn’t make Bob feel any less like he’s fallen down the rabbit hole. There’s something loud playing on the radio, a weird chair with lights all around it. The posters on the walls are half of bands, half neon-colored brain scans.

“This,” Wentz announces, waggling his fingers in Bob’s direction. “Is where the magic happens.”

A small, dark-haired head peeks around the corner of the doorway. “Is it time for my treatment?”

"Frank! Dude, yes, come on in. Sit down in the magic chair." Wentz makes a weird sort of hand motion, and Frank obediently sits in the chair.

“Hey," he says, once he notices Bob standing in the corner. "You’re _huge_.”

Bob gives Pete a look that implies how distinctly unimpressed he is. “Do I need to be here for this?”

Pete sends back a look that conveys his disdain just as effectively. " _Yeah_. Handler imprinting requires a direct line of sight. Frank needs to be looking into those dreamy blue eyes when I do my thing.”

“And then what? Me and Tiny become best friends?” He layers his sarcasm on thick enough for this wacko to hear.

The furrows in Wentz's face deepen. “It’s not about friendship," he shoots back, irritated. "It’s about trust. From this point on, Frank will always trust you. Without hesitation, without question -- no matter what. You’re about to become the most important person in his life.”

That gives Bob a moment's pause, and he looks at where Frank is sitting in the chair, fidgeting. "Not just like being a bodyguard, then."

"Eh. Little more complicated then that. What do they _tell_ you guys when you sign up, anyway? Frank's going to trust you. But trust you beyond all reason. You give him a gun, tell him to shoot someone? He'd probably do it."

"Probably?"

"Well, no one's ever tried, and I wouldn't recommend it for obvious reasons, but Frank'd probably get it done." Wentz hands Bob a sheet of paper. “Here. Your script."

"Why do I --"

Pete cuts him off. "Call and response. Neural lock and key. It's part of the process. _My_ process, so how about we stop asking so many dumb questions and get on with it? Don’t deviate, not one word. I’ve finally got this working the way I want it.”

Bob rolls his eyes and clears his throat. "Everything’s going to –“

“Whoa, whoa, dude. Hold his hand.”

“… I’m sorry?”

“His hand. Hold it. Bryar, come on.”

Bob gives Wentz his most incredulous look yet.

“Tactile proximity enhances bonding! Dude, come on, you were a cop. If you were trying to give someone your condolences, and really mean it, you’d put your hand on their shoulder or arm or whatever, right? Same thing. Now read your script."

Bob steps towards the chair, and leans over to take Frank's hand. It's warm -- which only makes sense, of course, Bob's losing it. This place has already got him thinking crazy things.

“Everything’s going to be alright," he says, calmly, and looks directly into Frank's dark eyes.

“Now that you’re here,” Frank says, and stops fidgeting.

“Do you trust me?” Bob asks, and reflexively tightens his grip on Frank's hand.

“With my life," Frank finishes, and squeezes back, tentatively.

Bob holds onto Frank's hand. Two, maybe three seconds. Wentz doesn't say anything, which is more sense than Bob would have thought to give him.

"Shall I go now?" Frank says, and loosens his hold on Bob's hand. "I feel like swimming."

"Go ahead, Frank," Wentz says gently, and Frank pops up from the chair and flashes a bright, quick grin before darting out the door.

"Seems hyper." Are all the Dolls like four year olds speeding around on a sugar high?

Wentz grins at his computer. “You have no idea. You’ve got your work cut out for you, man-friend.”

| |

Mostly, being a Handler isn’t a bad job. It has its downsides. The hours, for one, aren’t exactly nine-to-five. Bob has to be at the Dollhouse before, during, and after Engagements, which can be any time of the week, day or night. And when those happen to be scarce on the ground, Bob’s supposed to hang around Frank in order to “facilitate the bonding process.” No interaction unless Frank initiates, though; so Bob’s job becomes mainly watching over him, which manages to be both boring and creepy – except for the times Frank decides to jump off really high things, in which case Bob’s job suddenly gets a lot fucking harder. Like the time Frank broke his leg. Not only was he in traction for six weeks, but Bob had to spend all of it entertaining Frank himself. Two weeks in, he begged Pete to program Frank with an addiction to video games, just so he didn’t have to play another million games of Go Fish.

The paperwork part hasn’t changed much from being a cop. There’s always plenty of paperwork. Reports on each Engagement, especially when something goes wrong, _especially_ when Frank gets hurt – which happens to Frank more than any of the other Actives combined. Bob spent his first month as Frank’s Handler sweating bullets, thinking Beckett was going to come down on him for not doing his job. Turns out he’d already done better than Frank’s last Handler. Go figure.

The other Handlers themselves are a mixed bag. It takes some readjustment, because these are people Bob wouldn’t have hung out with before – actually, he probably would have _arrested_ them. Alicia’s tattoos mark her as pure First to Last gang, Victoria has the make of a professional gambler, possibly a con-women, and Gabe is fucking crazy, flat out. They’re good people though, mostly, so. Either way, Bob worked with a lot of asshole cops, and he knows how important being part of the group is, regardless of how much you like or don’t like them. Bob’s might be the new guy, but luckily Katy’s the requisite outcast of the office already, the one who doesn’t hang out with the rest of the group. As long as Bob comes in, drinks coffee with the rest, plays a hand of poker or two – never with Vicky-T, at least not for money – he’s part of the pack. He goes out to drink with Zack, sometimes, and Nate’s got good taste in music, so they’ve caught a show or two together.

It takes Bob some time to get over his distaste for the whole idea of a Dollhouse. It takes times for him to stop making it so obvious. Pete knows it too. Tries to stay out of his way, mostly, and lets Beckett do the debriefings on the Engagements.

One of the first Engagements Bob takes Frank on is a date with a pretty boy that has more money than sense. Frank is Programmed as a combative, bratty little shit, in tighter clothing than Bob usually sees on hookers. He and the client spend a few hours fucking each other, racing through the city on motorcycles, then partying all night with a bunch of rich boy’s friends. Bob picks Frank up at five in the morning, helps his drunk ass into the van and listens to him chatter the entire way back to the Dollhouse. Yadda yadda yadda about how much fun he had, how this douchebag is The One, its real true love, more yadda yadda yadda. Bob tries to keep his face as blank as possible and doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not like Frank’s going to remember.

They pull into the Dollhouse’s parking garage. Bob walks Frank to the elevator, still listening with half an ear.

“… because most guys, I don’t know, they _say_ they want something exciting, but what they really mean is when they only have time for it, you know? They’re not _really_ spontaneous, they just – ”

Bob puts one hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Your treatment, Frank.”

“Oh, right! Will you wait for me? I want to go right back to the party, and see Craig again.”

“I’ll be here,” Bob sighs. Time to go debrief with Beckett.

Then Frank surprises Bob by jumping on him, hugging him, and pressing one sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Thanks. You’re the best!” Frank bounces into the elevator. “Right after my treatment, I promise!” The elevator doors close, and Frank zooms away. Up to Pete for another treatment. Another Wipe. The return to Doll state.

Bob deliberately doesn’t touch his cheek until he turns the corner.

| |

“So they don’t remember anything, right?” Bob asks Pete one day. “That’s the deal, right. Even when they’re all done. They don’t remember anything.” Bob has seen Frank’s contract himself. Five years, and Frank’s name scrawled on the dotted line.

Pete gives Bob a sideways look and a grin. “That’s the deal. Better believe it, dude. I get to Wipe ‘em myself. Cassadee is not yet ready for such _awesome power_.”

Cassadee barely looks up from the computer to give Pete the finger. She’s Pete’s assistant, which mostly seems to mean she makes him Kraft dinners and gets his juice boxes in hopes of getting to touch the mainframe just _once_. She weighs maybe ninety pounds and kind of… bounces. Pretty perfect for working with Pete, really.

“Why do you ask, manfriend?” Pete continues, “Doubting my work?”

Bob starts to answer, but his work Blackberry vibrates against his hip at the same time Pete’s Sidekick starts blasting something obnoxious. A message from Beckett.

 _Meeting. 3PM. My office._

Pete and Bob share a look – and probably a feeling of burgeoning doom. Great.

| |

“Travis and Ms. Perry are unfortunately out on an assignment which could not be rescheduled,” Beckett opens. “Mr. Saporta, I trust you’ll debrief her properly when she returns.”

Gabe nods. “Sure thing, Boss-man.”

Bob would never get away with that, but Beckett merely ignores Gabe and moves on. “Mr. Navarro and Mr. Hall have noticed a potential problem. It’s possible some of you may have corroborating information, and we’re seeking input on how to best proceed. Mr. Navarro?”

Nate taps the computer screen. “The time Jon and Spencer have been spending together has increased steadily in the past months. Most of their free hours are now spent in each other’s company.”

“With other Dolls?” Vicky-T asks.

Nate shakes his head, taps the screen again. A number of graphs appear. “On average, thirty-percent of the day with Ryan and Brendon, twenty-percent with other dolls, and fifty-percent of the day in just each other’s company.”

“Jon has been pursuing Spencer,” Zack says. “Probably as actively as his programming allows. We’ve been reviewing the security tapes and interviewed them both. As far as we know, it’s completely asexual.”

“But you don’t know,” Gabe interrupts, bluntly.

Dr. Toro clears his throat. In spite of the situation – Bob’s not totally clear on what that is, actually – Bob has to fight back a smile. He always expects Toro’s voice to be much deeper. When Beckett first introduced them, Bob nearly lost it. “Neither has had any sexual contact. Not outside of what’s been scheduled during engagements, I mean.”

“But you think… you think they’re _compositing_ ,” Gabe continues, insisting. “Or at least Jon is.”

Beckett stepped forward, arms folded. “A composite event is doubtful.”

“Like before?” Gabe mutters.

“But we’re worried about escalation,” Beckett continues, unheeded. “Dr. Wentz, should we be, in your opinion? Is Jon becoming too close to Spencer?”

Pete briefly looks up from tapping on his Sidekick. “I guess? Worried, I mean. It depends what you mean by too close.”

“Are we looking at another Robert situation?” Siska asks bluntly. “Should we be considering the Attic? Are we—”

“If we put every Doll who had a glitch straight into the Attic, there’d be none left in the Dollhouse,” Beckett interrupts. “Dr. Wentz. _Is_ Jon’s attention towards Spencer something to be worried about?”

“Possibly?” Pete slides his Sidekick back into his pocket. “I don’t want to rule anything out, after – you know, _after_ , but I don’t think it’s a problem. Neither of them are showing any new behaviors, simply an increase in time spent together. And it’s pointless to discourage the Dolls from forming packs.”

“Packs?”

Pete chewed along one knuckle. “Jon hangs out with Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon more often than not. Travis, Patrick, and Greta hang together, usually Frank and Mikey are together. Packs. It’s… they don’t necessarily _feel_ more attached, at least not on any conscious level, but its in human nature to form attachments. To belong to a group. No amount of Wiping is going to get rid of it. And Dolls don’t have any aggression, so its not like they have any _negative_ feelings towards any other group, but the belonging is kind of important.”

“So we leave them as is,” Beckett says crisply. “That’s your recommendation.”

“Yeah. Nothing wrong with having friends, even if you’re a Doll.”

“Very well. Current policy remains as is. Leave the Dolls to their interactions. I trust Dr. Wentz and Dr. Toro, as well as the rest of you, will be monitoring Jon and Spencer more closely in the immediate future, and if further action is required they will no doubt inform me. Dr. Wentz and Dr. Pope have been quite thorough in their Wiping procedures, and there should be nothing to worry about prematurely.” Beckett picked up several folders from his desk. “Mr. Saporta, Mr. Hall, Ms. Simmons, your Actives have evening engagements. The rest of you, back to work.”

Bob waits for Beckett to hand out the folders, waits for Zack and Alicia to walk out. Waits and watches out of the corner of his eye for Gabe to throw the cobra – or whatever the hell it is he calls it – at Beckett, because that shit is too hilarious to miss. When Gabe finally leaves, Beckett waits a full two minutes before raising an eyebrow in Bob’s direction.

“Yes, Mr. Bryar?”

“Could I have a moment?”

“Very well. Everything alright with Frank?”

“Fine.” As far as Bob knows. They’ve been apart about half an hour, but it’s entirely possible Frank’s broken another bone. Pete’s been trying to find something to sedate him with, but getting around brain neurochemistry is tough when someone’s in Doll-state, apparently. Pete tried to dumb it down for him, but Bob is cool with taking things at face value. “I spent about half the meeting feeling like I’d missed something.”

Beckett raises his eyebrow again. “Yes?”

“About someone called Robert. After. After what?” The minute Siska said the name ‘Robert’ Tom had blanched, Vicky-T went completely poker-faced, and even Gabe seemed nervous. Last week Gabe’s Active, Ryan, was programmed to work on controlling a new and extremely virulent form of anthrax during an outbreak at a local university – and Gabe didn’t break a sweat. Gabe doesn’t _get_ nervous.

Beckett sighs and reaches into the file cabinet, coming back with a glossy photo of a man. Longish hair with a bit of red dye in the ends, devilish grin, plush lower lip. “Robert is the reason you were brought in. He was an Active here. At least until he killed one of the other Actives, Brent, and Brent’s handler, Matt; as well as Frank’s previous handler, Worm.”

Bob takes a minute to absorb this. Then – “Worm?”

Beckett sighs. “A nickname, of course. At any rate, Robert showed a steady increase in glitches before the incident. Many of the Dolls glitch, but he was the first that Composited – maintained parts of previous Imprints even after being Wiped. We’re still unsure how. Dr. Wentz insists it was an impossibility.”

“Not so much?”

“No,” Beckett agrees. “But this is cutting edge science, Mr. Bryar. There is a certain amount of risk involved. Human minds, regardless of their utility and however flawless the program and parameter given to them, are not without their complications.” Beckett places the photo back into the file and sighs. “After the incident, Hurley’s team tracked Robert down and put a bullet in his brain. The situation was contained as well as we were able. However, I’m sure you can understand why we wouldn’t want such an event to reoccur.”

“The rest of the Handlers seem to be on point.”

“As well they should be,” Beckett says smoothly.

“Was that the first time something like that happened?” Is it going to happen again?

“Glitches are quite common. As much as we understand about the human brain, there is even more we don’t understand. We call the Doll-state _tabula rasa_. The blank slate. But if you’ve ever tried to clean a slate, Mr. Bryar, you’d know you can always see what was on there before.”

Which is pretty much the opposite of an answer. And what was there wasn’t that reassuring, as far as not-answers go.

“Right.” Bob’s not entirely uncertain Beckett doesn’t have a touch of the crazy himself. “Right.”

| |

And Bob would leave it, but not a week later he gets another text from Beckett.

 _My office. NOW._

In the eight months Bob’s worked here, he’s never seen Beckett use all caps before. If doesn’t really seem like his style, to be honest. So either Siska hijacked Beckett’s Blackberry, or Beckett’s seriously upset about something.

| |

“Dr. Toro informed me that Brendon has had unauthorized sexual intercourse in the last twenty-four hours.” Beckett begins, and let’s that sink into the room before continuing. “Brendon’s last job was nearly days ago, as an entertainer at a high-end children’s cancer benefit. This has undoubtedly happened in the Dollhouse.”

Quiet murmurs from the Handlers. Ray looks a little sick. Ray’s too soft hearted for this, really, Bob thinks. He cares too much about all of the Dolls, about what happens to them – whether they’re in the Dollhouse or not.

“We were so sure…” Vicky-T trailed off. “Well. We’ve been watching Jon and Spencer so closely. Could we have missed Jon and Brendon?”

“Jon was clearly fixating on Spencer,” Nate argued. “Not Brendon.”

“But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have attacked Brendon,” Siska adds, ruthlessly. “Jon could be accessing multiple Imprints. Sure, _one_ might fixate on Spencer, but another might have forced himself on Brendon. Actives go through, what, an average of fifteen Imprints a month? Jon probably already has a library of a hundred Imprints to choose from. And we select Imprints for certain traits, but a large amount of their background is filler. And fuck knows what that filler is actually comprised of.”

Everyone looked at Pete. He shrugged. “We do background checks, but I don’t have the time to go through every Imprints’ entire background memory by memory, not if we want to book any Engagements in the next five years. So, yeah, that’s technically true. I mean, Zack, you remember how that kidnapping deal went down?”

“Jesus,” Zack says. “Like I could _forget_.”

Bob has to remember to ask about that later, as well.

“I’ve questioned Brendon, and Jon,” Ray says. “Brendon won’t say, or doesn’t know how to say. Jon insists he hasn’t done anything.”

“He can’t lie?” Tom retorts.

“Or he doesn’t remember,” Siska chimes in. “Or he doesn’t understand. We’ve made them very simple.”

Vicky-T shifts in her chair. “I’m uncomfortable leaving Greta on the floor.”

“Forget Greta,” Gabe snaps. “ _Ryan_. Jon hangs with Ryan more than Greta, by far.” Behind him, Nate is nodding. Alicia murmurs something into Zack’s ear.

“ _Everyone_ ,” Beckett says, and waits for the room to quiet. He taps his fingers on the desktop, an exasperated click-click-click. “Dr. Wentz,” Beckett says finally. “Would a full Wipe be sufficient? Or is the Attic a better option?”

Pete’s face looks especially pale in contrast to his eyeliner. “Jon’s neural plasticity has always been a little less malleable than the other Dolls. I’m not saying a full Wipe _wouldn’t_ be sufficient, I’m just… less sure.”

“Aren’t we jumping the gun here?” Bob interrupts. “It doesn’t make sense. We watch the Dolls every hour of every day. Even when we’re not around, there are yoga instructors, painters, lifeguards. Not to mention the cameras. The structure of this place is completely open. If Jon – if _any_ of the Actives – raped Brendon, where the hell did they do it?”

And no has an answer for him.

“Very well,” Beckett says after a moment. “Mr. Hurley and I will be reviewing that tapes for the last two days. If Jon is or isn’t off-Program, it won’t take long to find it.”

“I suggest we isolate Jon in the meantime,” Siska added. “Sir.”

Beckett gives him a sideways look. “I’d prefer to watch how he interacts with the other Actives. Dismissed. Back to your floor.”

| |

Something about it is wrong. Not just the obvious parts, of course. Not just what was done to Brendon, not just the way they talk about the Attic – what the Attic is, Bob still doesn’t know. Bob’s not the type to pry, usually, and something tells him he doesn’t _want_ to know– but the way Beckett looked at Siska, the way Siska is so quick to suggest the Attic. Everyone’s on edge, and it could be because they’re afraid of another Robert, or because they’re afraid of getting caught themselves.

There’s a nook in one of the corridors leading off of one of the swimming pools. Small. There used to be an end table there, Bob thinks, which seems to have moved across the hall. And there’s cameras on each corner, but…

He takes a minute to think, and then he’s dialing Beckett, telling him to take Jon off the floor.

Then Bob waits.

| |

It takes hours, but he’s right. It’s not a good feeling. He remembers this from being a cop – right, proven right, but not in a pleasant way. A paltry reward for figuring out exactly the way sick motherfuckers think.

Bob watches as Brendon steps around the corner and into the alcove, where Tom is already waiting.

“Do you trust me?” Tom asks.

“With my life,” Brendon chirps back, and something in Bob’s stomach sours.

“It’s time to play the game,” Tom continues evenly. “Do you remember the rules?”

“Noise is upsetting,” Brendon says, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “And this is my quiet time.”

“Good.”

The sound of Brendon’s pants unzipping fills Bob with the kind of rage he normally tries to keep under control. He had warnings when he was a cop – excessive force, that kind of thing. He knows he needs to keep it under control. He’s been trying since he was just a kid, but fuck, _sometimes_.

Bob comes around the corner and punches Tom in the jaw so hard he feels the reverb all the way up his arm. Tom hits the floor with a satisfactory thud, head lolling back, and Brendon’s hands still.

“That was _not_ quiet,” he says, eyes wide, and Bob agrees.

“I want you to go see Ray, okay?” he tells Brendon. “Even if someone else is in the office. Tell him what happened.”

“Okay.” Brendon zips up his pants and fixes his shirt. “Go talk to Ray.”

“Yeah.”

Brendon skips off, and Bob looks at where Tom is crumpled at his feet. He’s got a few minutes before Siska and Hurley get here. You can do a lot with five minutes.

| |

“Dr. Wentz has done all he knows to remove any memories Brendon may still have of the event,” Beckett says, leafing through a stack of files on his desk. “Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible to remove all associations without wiping him completely, so minor glitches may be a problem. Brendon’s next Handler will be thoroughly screened as well as debriefed about the situation.”

Beckett is still staring out of the window. Bob decides on silence as the better part of valor, here.

“How did you know?” Beckett asks finally. “That it was Conrad?”

“I didn’t,” Bob says. To be honest, he thought it was Siska. “But it could have been anyone who worked here, and taking Jon off the floor was the only way to lure them out.”

“You are _not_ to go behind my back in such a manner again, am I being clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Beckett turns around. “The bonus has been wired to your account.”

Bob didn’t do it for a bonus, but he’s not going to complain. “What about Conrad?”

“There’s no sense worrying about him anymore,” Beckett says, voice perfectly pleasant. That could mean any number of options Bob doesn’t want to think about. He knows, logically, there’s not way to bring the police into this. To get justice through any kind of system. The Dollhouse swallows everything and everyone up.

| |

For the first time since this Dollhouse thing started, Bob goes home and drinks himself stupid. Really stupid. He should probably call in the next day, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t let Frank out of his sight for nearly a week. When he realizes what he’s doing, he goes out to his favorite bar. Finds someone large and built, swarthy – not tiny, not pretty. Plenty of tattoos, but lots of people have tattoos these days, right?

| |

Later that month, Bob’s on a high-risk engagement with Frank. The client is a guy who wants someone to rock climb and white water raft and hunt deer and all sorts of really intense crazy fucking macho adrenaline stuff, and Bob _maybe_ understands why he has to go to the Dollhouse to get a date with someone like that. Especially if he wants them to look as pretty as Frank. You pretty much _have_ to get that shit made to order. Not that he condones it – this Dollhouse hasn’t fucked him up quite that much yet – but he maybe understands it.

Then it turns out the client doesn’t just want someone who can rock climb and white water raft and hunt deer – he wants to hunt _Frank_ , ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ style. Needless to say, that shit is _not_ on. Bob’s supposed to have eyes and ears on this one, but considering they’re in the ass end of ‘who the hell would want to be there’ he’s lucky to even be heading off in the right direction. He spends half an hour frantically running through the forest waiting for a gunshot, or a scream, or a really ominous crack of thunder, _fuck_ , before coming across Frank near one of the many alcoves next to the river, wide eyes and spiked hair, looking for all the world like a scared hedgehog.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” Bob gasps out, relieved when Frank nods dumbly.

“Now that you’re here.” After a moment Frank shakes his head. “Dude, why _are_ you here. Do I… know you?”

“Let’s not worry about that right now,” Bob says, and unholsters his gun. “Spotted Mr. Psycho lately?”

“Uhm. Top of the ridge, a minute ago. I don’t know if he saw me here, I just. I couldn’t run anymore.”

“You did good,” Bob says, and Frank nods again.

As it turns out, Mr. Psycho might not have seen Frank but he sure as fuck saw Bob. Which is how Bob gets fucking shot in the leg. _Twice_.

“Cock _sucker_ ,” Bob gasps. What is about arrows that sting twice as bad as fucking bullets? He’s got one hand on his leg, the other shooting two bullets at the tree the fuckhead is hiding behind. There’s a strangled yelp, so maybe Bob hit him, or he’s at least got splinter shrapnel in his ass. That works for Bob.

“You know how to shoot a gun?” Bob asks, and hands Frank the gun anyway.

“I had four older brothers,” Frank says, and takes the extra clip from Bob’s belt, “and none of them were Democrats.”

Bob is _so_ thanking Pete later.

“Want me to distract him?” Bob asks. He’s got a few minutes before the pain really gets ugly.

Frank shakes his head. “With that bow he’s gonna have to step out from behind that tree sometime. And that’s all I need.”

The look on the bastard’s face when Frank’s shoots him is actually pretty fucking priceless. It’s almost worth getting shot with an _arrow_. Maybe not twice, though. After that, Bob maybe browns out for a second, thinking about how he’s really gonna have to thank Pete for giving Frank sharpshooting skills too.

“Dude? Dude, hey, stay with me.” Frank slaps the side of Bob’s face. “Wake up, dude.”

“I’m completely _awake_ ,” Bob growls, and tries to bat Frank’s hands away. It’d be more impressive if he wasn’t failing miserably. “Stop slapping me, or I’ll push you off the cliff.”

Frank snorts. “Sure, dude. Like you could even stand up right now.”

When Bob starts to get up, just to show him that he totally _could_ , Frank squeaks and sits on Bob’s legs. “That was not an invitation! Jesus, stop being so hardcore.”

“Hardcore?” Bob snickers. Blood loss must be getting to him. Or the adrenaline. “Talk about hardcore. You just shot a guy in the chest.”

After a moment, Frank starts to laugh. “You took an arrow to the leg! Two arrows!”

“Hardcore,” Bob agrees, and tries to press down on the wound. “You wearing a belt?”

“Yeah, sure, you – oh, tourniquet, good plan. The not bleeding-out plan.”

“Personal favorite of mine,” Bob agrees, while Frank takes off his belt and loops it around Bob’s upper thigh, and tightens it until Bob grimaces.

“Think that’ll work?”

“Hope so,” Bob says, muzzily. “Help’s on the way, just have to… stay put. Stay alive.”

“Okay,” Frank says quietly. He’s perched on Bob’s good leg, one hand pressing on the wound, the other looped around Bob’s shoulders. “Hold on, okay?”

“Yup.”

“Okay,” Frank says, and settles in.

| |

Hurley’s team finds them curled up under a tree, Bob’s hand dwarfing Frank’s where it presses over the arrow wound.

“It was really cute,” Ray tells him later, when he’s getting stitched up. “Mixon might have taken a picture for blackmail purposes. He’s kind of like that. Watch out for that at this year’s Christmas Party, is all I’m saying.”

There might have been more, but Bob was on a morphine drip and really entranced with the way Ray’s hair moved around when he talked.

Bob gets two weeks off, then a month light duty, with all of Frank’s Engagements low-risk only. Frank has some healing of his own to do, so there’s no need for a temporary Handler in the interim, which Bob is almost stupidly grateful for. _Stupidly_.

When Bob comes in after his two weeks, Frank wanders over to him almost immediately. “Pete told me you were hurt,” he says. “Did Ray fix you? Were you getting better?”

“Yeah,” Bob says. “Yeah, Ray fixed me right up.”

“Ray’s nice,” Frank says, chewing on his thumbnail. “I like his hair.”

Bob laughs, maybe a little harder than he should. He’s still on like, Percocet, okay? “It’s amazing.”

Frank beams. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too,” Bob says – mostly to himself, because Frank’s already bopping away to the main floor. “Me too.”

| |

The thing about Bob is, he doesn’t buck the system. He does his job, to the letter, the way its supposed to be done, and he takes a certain pride in that. He believes in the rules. He thinks they’re there for a reason, and they mostly work, and you don’t try to fix something that isn’t really broken, and you _never_ mess around with something you don’t already need to fix. It’s why he became a cop.

The thing about Bob is, he’ll only surprise you when push comes to shove. That’s when he starts to surprise himself.

| |

It’s a Tuesday night. A lot like any Tuesday night, though instead of driving Frank to some Lonely Hearts engagement with a bored society wife, Bob’s sitting in a van near the warehouse district. The client wants a particular piece of artwork, currently stored in one of the more beefed-up warehouses before it goes on display in an exclusive gallery in Tokyo next week, and is apparently willing to pay through the nose to get it. Which means Frank gets to play the perfect second-story thief. Frank’s got the build – tiny, flexible; even graceful if he’s paying attention – and the rest is easy enough for Pete to program. Fake back-story, some art knowledge, some tech, gun skills and hand-to-hand, just in case. The client also provides the hookup with two real criminals – Dewees, who has the specs on the place, and a skinny little kid named Marshall, for tech.

It’s not the type of job Bob expects to go sideways.

Bob’s wired in on this job, which is pretty standard for any that isn’t a Lonely Hearts. So he knows exactly when things go wrong – after Frank’s in, after the security guard makes his way to another floor on his rounds, after Frank finds the painting, and right when he’s going to remove it.

“Oh shit,” Frank breathes into his intercom, and Bob tenses. On screen, Frank’s vitals have just taken a spike – heart rate, skin conductance. Panic. And Frank is not really programmed to crack under pressure.

“Oh shit, _what_?” Dewees asks testily. “Those are two words I didn’t need to hear.”

Frank’s vitals are slowing, but he’s still panicking. “It’s on timer. Thirty seconds. Fairly standard issue, but this wasn’t on the specs.”

“Rich paranoid bastards,” Dewees swears, like he didn’t just prove their every paranoid suspicion correct “Marshall, where…”

“Security was near the stairwell last I had eyes. Should be just about on you, Iero.”

“Almost got it,” Frank snaps. “How close is he? Should I bother setting it all back up, or just snatch and grab?”

The gunshot pretty much answers that question. Frank’s vitals skyrocket – but they’re still there. Bob is already autodialing the Dollhouse.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dewees shouts. “Iero?”

“Pigs are on their way,” Marshall announces. “Dewees, I’m out.” Click.

Silence. Frank’s stats waver, he grunts once or twice, then nothing. Thirty seconds lag time.

“Guard’s down,” Frank says, finally, and mostly to himself. “I’m gut shot. Not sure how bad.”

Dewees hesitates, whether because Frank’s hurt or because of the potential payday is anyone’s guess. Then – “Iero, I’m out. We’ll be at the drop site, if you make it.” Another click.

And finally, Beckett on the phone.

“The Engagement’s botched,” Bob says, as calmly as he can. “The guard’s down, but Frank’s still inside with a shot to the abdomen. Could be bad.” The sirens are loud in the background now, close. “Police are en route.”

“I’ve been informed,” Beckett snaps. “Apparently there was a unit in the vicinity. Mr. Hurley says the police are less than two blocks away. There’s no time. Get out.”

Bob reaches for the door immediately, before it hits him that Beckett means _without Frank_ , and his fingers freeze on the handle.

“Frank – ”

“Was spotted by the security guard he disabled, has left blood all over the scene, is more than likely dying even without factoring in complications from his Epstein-Barr, is more than probably without the client’s artwork, and your chances of extraction without detention are roughly nil. Leave.”

Bob knows that they’ve got fingers in every law enforcement agency there is. Not for a solid fact, maybe, but they get away with too many things they shouldn’t for it _not_ to be true. Beckett could get Frank out of this, if he tried. It’s like he just decided Frank wasn’t worth the effort. Wasn’t worth the favor.

Bob maybe sees red, for a second. It surprises him. He cares for Frank, but that’s mostly his job. Bob’s the type of guy who _does_ his job. Maybe he cares for his Active a bit more than some of the other Handlers do, but that doesn’t take much. It’s not like – he shouldn’t be so angry. He shouldn’t be so involved.

There’s a minute where he thinks about just heading back. Leaving Frank where he is. Shot. Scared, if his stats are anything to go by. It’s not a moment Bob’s proud of, but you don’t mess with someone with Beckett, with the people who run the Dollhouse. Not without _serious_ consequences. And Bob likes this life. Why wouldn’t he? He likes his health, and the money, and even the job, to a point. Why throw it all away on someone who’s probably dead anyway? So yeah, there’s a minute where he thinks about not bothering. Then he realizes he’s already opened the door, striding towards the building, without any kind of conscious decision whatsoever.

Frank is in the alleyway outside of the building. Bob almost overlooks him – Frank’s tiny, he’s dressed in dark colors – but in the end the raspy breathing is kind of a giveaway. When Bob takes another step towards him, Frank looks up, eyes wild. He’s got one hand pressed to the wound, the other reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

“Would you like a treatment?” Bob asks. The hand going for the gun drops and Frank nods. Bob steps forward to press down onto the wound, his fingers sliding over Frank’s Everything already slippery with blood. Bob slides his arm around Frank’s waist, through more blood. A through-and-through, then. Could be worse. “Come on,” he says gently, “Let’s get in the van.”

Only he can’t take the van, he realizes. It’s bugged all to hell, without a doubt, and even if it weren’t its leased in the Corporation’s name. New plan. He half-drags, half-lifts Frank to a car parked around the corner. Four-door, dark color, maybe ten years old. No alarm and easy to hotwire.

Bob’s mind’s going a mile a minute. He’s having trouble processing. Keeping up. He’s used to thinking like a criminal, but so he could find people, not because _he_ was the one trying to escape. He thinks, first, that he’ll hide Frank somewhere and smuggle him away later, after all the debriefing and paperwork, but Beckett won’t be happy until Frank shows up in the morgue somewhere. People like Beckett expect bodies. Suddenly these first few minutes, the hours – they’re critical if Bob’s going to get any distance away from Beckett, and all the people behind him. It isn’t going to take long for Hurley to figure out Frank’s not in police custody, and it’ll probably take even less time for Beckett to figure out Bob’s gone AWOL.

He settles Frank in the back. Yanks off his hoodie – Bob sends up a brief prayer for being the kind of guy that always dresses in layers – and presses it into the stomach side of the wound. Leaves Frank bleeding all over the seat from the back and hopes gravity’s going to be enough.

“Hold onto that, okay?” he says, and Frank nods, pressing hard onto the sweatshirt.

There’s a police car up the block, cutting off the traffic going out. There’s no place to go. Bob’s not getting far, not in this clunker, and it’s too late to go back, in more ways than one. Beckett doesn’t like people who go outside the box. Particularly against his orders. Bob might have come out on top of the Conrad situation, but this isn’t even close to the same thing.

Bob slows the car, just a little – too much and it’s just as suspicious as speeding right past – and says over his shoulder, “This is going to hurt, but I need you to get on the ground. As small as you can.”

Frank nods. “Small,” he grits out. “Small I can do.” With one hand still pressed to his side, he slides onto the floor and curls up. He’s still dressed all in black, of course, and as long as keeps his face and hands tucked away, it could be worse. They’re already playing the long odds on this one.

Bob rolls down the window in anticipation of answering questions –

“Bryar?”

Of course… of all people, of all the cops in Chicago, it’s Brian. This was part of their beat, but he never. _Fuck_.

“Was just around the neighborhood.” Bob’s barely bothered to wipe off his hands. There’s blood under his nails, in the creases of his knuckles. Bob isn’t stupid enough to think Brian hasn’t noticed. They were partners for five years. At the very least, he knows that Bob’s lying.

“Look, Bryar –” Brian glances towards the back of the car. Whether he sees Frank or not is anyone’s guess.

“Schechter. Brian, I –” Bob run one hand through the stubble on his face. “Did I ever ask you for anything? Even once?”

The truth is that cops are more The Shield than Law and Order. They’re not paragons of virtue. Most of them are far from it. They’re on the grift, they let dealers go for a taste, they turn a blind eye towards the corner if the girls working there give it up for free. Evidence gets planted or even completely fabricated, confessions get beaten out of perps, witnesses get “help” remembering. There’s no such thing as a completely clean cop – at least not one that’ll ever get off the main beat. And your partner, whoever he is, gets dragged right along with you because no one rats on their partner, ever.

No cop does it completely by the book all the time, but Bob did better than most, and so did Brian. He hopes to God that counts for something now. Because he’s got one hand on his gun, and he won’t shoot Brian but he’ll sure as shit clock the hell out of him if that means getting away.

“Don’t suppose a thirteen-thirteen counts when you’re only an ex-cop,” he says wearily.

Brian’s new partner – Jamia something. Bob remembers her, there’s not that many female cops in the precinct even these days – is looking curiously from the front seat. She’ll get out in a minute, and Bob can’t count on her to be completely distracted if he decides to gun it.

Brian only hesitates for a second. “Once a cop, always a cop,” he says. “You know that, Bryar.”

Bob’s chest tightens. “Thanks.”

“Now get the fuck out of here, asshole, before the suspect description comes in matching the guy on your floor,” Brian says, and waves Jamia off. “You’re going to be a shitty criminal.”

When they turn the corner Bob pulls Frank back up onto the seat. Drives for thirty minutes, about as long as he thinks Frank can stand. The first town they roll through with a drugstore, Bob stops. Grabs rubbing alcohol, bandages, Tylenol – which is kind of like trying to dam up a flood with grains of sand, but better than nothing. A stop for a high-proof alcohol somewhere down the line would not be out of the question. Then he heads to the nearest evil-conglomeration-mart for the needle and thread. That’s where criminals make their mistakes, to be honest – not necessarily that they buy suspicious things, but things that are suspicious in combination together. It takes more time, but if they get caught Frank’s as good as dead anyway. Maybe not this time, but sometime. His next Handler won’t care as much. Beckett doesn’t really care at all.

Bob parks behind what looks like was once a grocery store. Frank seems to have passed out, which is probably a blessing, but when Bob douses the wound in alcohol he wakes up quick enough and bats at Bob’s arms before realizing what’s going on. Bob shoves the bloody hoodie behind Frank’s head before stitching him up. Pads the wound, briskly makes Frank drink a bottle of water, swallow some Tylenol, and attempt a cup of soup he’d picked up at the local McD’s. Frank’s barely awake for it, which is just as well.

Bob gets back into the front and spends two minutes staring at the steering wheel before realizing that could have been two minutes getting farther away from Beckett.

This time he heads for the highway. They can’t stop at a hotel. It’s easy to find them, especially considering how close they still are to Chicago. Bob wants to keep going. He doesn’t want to stop driving until he hits the coast, really. He’ll get as far as he can, but he can’t keep going with Frank like this.

Two hours later he sees a turn-off for a lake, and takes it on a whim. If the place is big enough, there’ll be summer houses somewhere – places nice families go to commune with nature for a week or two. Fish. Maybe go hunting. He takes another turn-off and hits the jackpot. A house set off in the woods, done up in fake hunting lodge style. Kind of ugly, really, but an easy place to stay for a few days. Even if the place has a caretaker, at best they’ll stop by to make sure no one’s broken in a window. They won’t look for squatters.

There’s a small bedroom downstairs. Small bed. Kid-size. Good for Frank, really. When Bob tucks him in, Frank barely even opens his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asks muzzily, and curls into the covers.

“I’m who’s taking care of you,” Bob says gruffly. “Stop moving, or you’ll pull the stitches.”

Frank wrinkles his nose. “’Kay.”

Bob force-feeds him another bowl of soup and more Tylenol. Checks for fever then gets back into the car.

He has to do this now or never. Beckett’s looking for them in Chicago, of course, but not nearly as heavy as he’s looking elsewhere. So Bob drives back. Paranoid as fuck the whole time, of course, but he needs this. He’s got no more money – he can’t use his credit cards anymore, and he can’t take out anything from his bank accounts. Lucky that Bob’s always been a cautious kind of guy. He’s got some money stashed away, just in case something like this happens – not that he ever thought it would be something like _this_ , but getting involved with an ethically nebulous organization that isn’t even supposed to exist was reason enough to be cautious. His mom has access to all of his accounts for just that reason. She’ll be taken care of, at least. He’ll have to find a way to talk to her, later. Not right now. Probably not even any time soon.

He manages it. Ditches the car somewhere it won’t be found for a while, buys another one just as disposable. Goes to buy someone painkillers too – because Frank is sure as shit going to want those – and he doesn’t think much of anyone saw him either way.

By the time he gets back to the house he’s shaky from exhaustion, the bursts of adrenaline. He carefully pulls the car around the house and grabs the bag of supplies from the backseat before going into check on Frank.

And – oh, _great_ , Frank’s found the gun.

Frank’s gaze is sharp. Lucid. And the hand holding the gun is steady. So at least Bob’s not going to get shot accidentally. Small comfort, right now.

The problem that Bob didn’t think about… well, Bob basically just didn’t _think_ , okay, he gets that – but the big problem he didn’t dwell one quite yet was that Frank was going to still be who he thought he was for the mission. Francis Anthony Iero, a.k.a. Tony Pizzagalli, a.k.a. Tiny Frank. He thinks he grew up in Jersey, for Christ’s sake. He thinks he has _mob connections_. He thinks he was, like, blessed by one of the five dons. And now he’s got a gun on Bob, because he doesn’t really have any idea who the fuck Bob _is_.

“Hands up,” Frank orders, and Bob obediently sets down the bag he was carrying and does so. “Who the fuck are you?” Frank spits out, and isn’t this _perfect_.

“Frank,” Bob tries, cautiously. “Frank, put the gun down.”

“Like fuck I’m putting the gun down.”

“Okay. Fine. Just –”

“I’m only gonna ask you one more time. Who are you?”

Bob tries to keep his voice even. “My name’s Bob. I’m your Handler.”

“I don’t _have_ a handler. I’m a free agent.” Frank’s eyes narrow. “And I’ve seen you before.”

Something else Bob didn’t exactly think about. How the hell to explain this. There should be graphs. Little charts explaining all the different levels of fucked up.

“I _know_ you,” Frank insists, and the finger on the trigger tightens. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

“Oh Jesus.” Bob lets his hands drop out of sheer frustration. “This is going to sound crazy.”

“Too late.”

Bob takes a deep breath. “Have you heard of the Dollhouse?”

“Are we talking the kind of gift you give to your seven year old niece, or…?”

“Like the urban legend.”

“Sure. What kid hasn’t. Your point?”

“It’s real. You’re a part of it. You’ve been programmed.”

Frank pulls a face. “Okay, wow. I’ve heard better stories from fourteen year olds who shoplift.”

“Seriously. You’re one of the Dolls. Programmed. I’m your Handler. You’re a little confused right now, just…” Bob has a sudden flash of inspiration. Jesus, he should have done this right off. “Everything will be all right,” Bob says.

Frank’s grasp on the gun loosens. “Now that you’re here.”

Bob waits. After a moment, the blandly pleasant smile fades from Frank’s face. “Uhm. What did…”

“You’re _programmed_ ,” Bob says wearily. “I told you.”

Frank’s grip on the gun retightens. “So say it was true. Say I believe you. What the hell’s going on?”

“You remember the job, right?”

“The Sarmiento piece, yeah. At the warehouse.”

“You remember getting shot?”

“That’s where it starts to get fuzzy. Look, I don’t –”

Frank’s eyes are going wild, but the doubt is there. “When you were five you had a dog named Pansy. It’s also what you called your first guitar. You got your appendix out in the third grade, only it burst first and you almost died because you were a really stubborn little shit who didn’t want to go to the hospital for a stomach ache. Your last boyfriend dumped you because you didn’t tell him what you really do for a living and he thought you were cheating on him. Uhm.” Bob tries to remember anything else Pete had let slip while he was programming. “You’re vegan, which. Sorry about that, the soup I’ve been feeding you is definitely full of meat byproducts. I don’t know what meat byproducts, but definitely some.”

The look on Frank’s face is somewhere between gobsmacked and angry. “You don’t seem like the stalker type.”

“I used to be a cop,” Bob offers, and Frank tilts his head.

“Yeah, okay, that I believe. You’ve got that look.” Frank sighs and sets the gun on the nightstand. “Okay. Okay, fuck, what the ever-loving _fuck_. I trust you, I don’t know fucking _why_ , but I trust you. So I’m gonna believe you, which is good because I can’t hold this fucking gun up any longer. Shit.”

“Got painkillers in the bag,” Bob explains. “And soup, if you feel up to it.”

“Shit,” Frank says again. “Just don’t tell me about the meat byproducts.”

| |

Bob gives Frank space for the rest of the day. He watches TV, mostly. Dozes on and off. He comes in to check Frank’s bandages once, and to give him more painkillers. The gun sits on the bedside table, which is something like a step towards trust, even if Bob has another one.

Bob brings Frank more food later. “Eggs and toast. If you can keep it down.”

“I don’t have a scar,” Frank says flatly. His hands are tightened fists on the bedspread.

Bob missed something here. “What?”

“My appendix. I had surgery. I… I remember having surgery, but there’s no scar. And there’s a bullet graze on my arm,” he continues wearily, “that shouldn’t be there. I think I’d remember getting grazed by a bullet.”

Pete Wentz: not so infallible after all.

‘I told you’ doesn’t really seem right for the situation. “You got that on an Engagement,” Bob explains, anyway. “It… went kind of sideways.”

“Like this last one?” Frank asks, kind of wry but a lot angry, underneath. “Bang up job you’re doing, _handling_ me.”

Bob has a brief moment of crystal clear _rage_ where he’s tempted to shove the Vicodin down Frank’s throat and pour the soup over Frank’s head, as he reminds himself Frank doesn’t have any fucking idea what Bob gave up. What kind of trouble they’re really in. Also, he hasn’t slept in like two days now, and Bob’s never been good at doing that without at least a Starbucks run or two.

“At least the first time no one ordered you left to die,” he says bluntly, and watches Frank flinch. “More soup. More Vicodin. Yell if you need anything.”

| |

They stay at the summerhouse for another week and a half, until Bob thinks Frank’s good enough to travel. No fever, the stitches are about gone, and Frank’s been holding down increasing amounts of food, staying awake longer. He still can’t really walk unassisted, but Bob picks him up and shoves him the car anyway, even though Frank fumes and ignores Bob for the first three hours of the car ride, until Bob turns the radio to the Jonas Brothers and Frank gives him a _look_ – a look that’s so… so _Frank_ , so familiar, suddenly, that Bob can’t help cracking a smile.

There are little things he’s noticed that translate no matter who Frank thinks he is. The nervous way he chews the skin around his nails, the high-pitched giggle and bright grin – not that Bob’s seen either of those lately – the irrepressible daring. Frank’s been programmed to be meek or quiet a time or two, but it doesn’t really stick. It probably drove Pete crazy, thinking he’d done something wrong, but really? Bob know it’s just _Frank_. He never thought the Dolls were really as blank as everyone seemed to believe.

They go for two days, taking turns driving, napping, and chugging Red Bull. Bob tells Frank about the Dollhouse, about the people who run it – what they look like, what they do, how they operate. Frank’s still not a hundred percent on board, but Bob can see it sinking in – what’s the point of lying? And why such a ridiculous, fantastic lie?

They pick a larger town to settle in, not quite a city. Small towns gossip too much, and cities always have some organization running underneath the surface it’s best not to get caught up in. Bob and Frank rent a house on the outside of town – a little run down, but more than enough for their purposes. Bob puts out some feelers on whether there’s anyone around here who could get him and Frank fake IDs – the good kind, the kind that come with new identities attached. Any kid with a decent copier and printer can make an ID to get you into a bar, but Bob needs something that will stand up against a background check, and that’s going to take time. Frank offers to get in touch with some people, but Bob cuts that off at the start. Nothing of Frank’s old life can come with them here. Beckett knows everything Frank knows – all his contacts, all his memories, all his history.

Frank is sullen. Nearly silent, most of the time. He spends all day in his room, never cooks, never even helps with the clean-up. It’s like living with a teenager. And Bob lets it slide for a bit, because – because Frank gets some fucking processing time, you know? If Bob found out he used to be a programmable doll, and that all the memories in his head weren’t real, and that everything he thought was true was a big fucking lie, he’d want some processing time too.

But it’s not just processing time. It drags on, until it’s clear that Frank is trying to push him. Punishing him for the job, for what he did, and it’s partly – Bob takes it for a while. He doesn’t say anything, just takes it, because he knew what was going on, he knew that things that were being done to Frank, and he didn’t exactly _care_ as long as it all went to script. There’s a certain kind of wrong there, yeah, and he can admit to that. There’s a certain kind of guilt that comes with it. But overall, Bob is a pretty pragmatic guy, and he saved Frank’s fucking _life_ , he took two goddamn _arrows_ for him, even if Frank can’t remember it, and he doesn’t expect Frank to be grateful but he needs –

“For you to stop being such a moody, useless fucking little _shit_ ,” Bob snarls, and when Frank’s fist smashes into his face it’s almost a relief – because at least it’s a reaction.

The fight is short but fairly brutal. Pete, true to form, programmed Frank with completely unnecessary ninja-like ass kicking skills, but Bob’s bigger and heavier, so they smack each other around pretty evenly until Bob manages to get the drop on Frank and hold him down.

“What do you _want_?” Bob asks. “Seriously, Frank, wh—”

“I hate this!” Frank shouts, furious. “I hate this, I hate this place, and I hate this house and I hate you! I hate that I don’t – that I remember shit but it’s not really mine, I hate that everything got so fucked up, I hate that I was a _Doll_ , I hate… I hate that I’ve probably got a real family out there somewhere, I hate knowing that there’s somebody out there that could fix me –”

“Except they’d _kill_ you first. You don’t – they do what they want with you, Frank. You signed up for it," he says helplessly. "All the Actives did. I don't... I _don't_ know if you were coerced, okay, I don't know if they plucked you off the street, or helped you with a prison rap, or just offered you money, I don't know. But it was your signature on the paper, signing away five years of your life."

Frank’s eyes are wet. “You’re _lying_.”

“Why would I? If you didn’t agree, why aren’t there people looking for you? For all of the Dolls?”

“Maybe there are, okay? Maybe – ”

“People don’t disappear unless they want to,” Bob says simply. Or unless someone else wants them to, but that goes without saying. “I don’t know why, I only know that it was.”

They lie there for a minute, Bob heavy on top of Frank. Too drained to move.

“What did they give you?” Frank asks finally. “Or. What did they have on you?”

Bob’s grip tightens on Frank’s wrists.

“I know you wouldn’t… you’re a good person. That’s the… that’s the fucking irritating part, is that you _are_ , so. You wouldn’t do something like that if they just asked you.” Frank has his head turned, to stare at the wall. “So why.”

Bob lets go of Frank’s wrists. Sits back. "Surgery," he says finally. "Cutting edge. Beyond cutting edge, it was – my wrists are -- _were_ \-- completely fucked up. Perp smashed them on the job. Smashed them into fucking pieces, you know? Thirty years old, and on my worse days buttoning my fucking jeans made me want to cry. And there was nothing to do.” Bob shrugged, rubbing a hand over his wrist. “I’d had surgery but I couldn’t afford more, and it wouldn’t have helped with the pain anyway. There were cortisone shots for mobility but those hurt like fuck to begin with, and they weren’t going to fix. There wasn’t _anything_ out there to fix it.”

“But the Dollhouse fixed it.”

“Beckett came to me and said they’d be like brand new. All I have to do is give them five years of my life -- five years of basically being a bodyguard, and they fix my wrists and still pay me enough money to buy a small island at the end of it? Yeah, I was in. I didn't ask questions. Maybe I should have, I don’t know. I just wanted it so badly.”

“Yeah.” Frank says quietly. “I get that.”

| |

Frank spends the rest of the day in his room, but he makes dinner that night. It’s burnt garlic bread, and undercooked pasta with red sauce and something that might once have been tofu sausage, but it’s a start.

| |

Bob gets a job at a local record store, and Frank starts tending bar at one of the dives in town – doubtful that Pete programmed that in himself, but its there nonetheless. They’re not exactly hurting for money, but they don’t want to be the creepy dudes who live on the edge of town forever. That’s memorable. The guy who holds down a shitty minimum wage job? Not so much.

The store itself is cool. There’s a small college a few blocks over, and the whole neighborhood has an indie/hippie feel to it that Bob can get behind, even if he doesn’t quite fit into it. The other employees are two college kids, both called Alex. For nearly a month they barely say two words to him, until Frank comes in to visit and climbs all over him, gives him a wet willy, and only survives because he offers to buy Bob lunch. After that Bob finds out Johnson-Alex plays drums, and that Singer-or-DeLeon-Alex (Bob still isn’t sure; at work he mostly just yells “Alex” and deals with whichever one gets there first) has a faily douchebag of a boyfriend with horrendous tattoos called Cash. _Cash_. Bob is less surprised once he finds out they’re from Vegas, if still equally appalled.

They try to live off the grid as much as possible. The record store owner is cool with paying under the table. Bob pays their rent in cash and all the utilities are in their landlord’s name. Frank spends a few weeks beefing up the house security anyway. Multiple deadbolts on the door, locks on the windows. A gate around the whole house. None of these are exactly deterrents, but they’ll slow someone down a bit, and sometimes that’s all you need.

Frank goes from not wanting to talk about anything to wanting to know everything Bob knows about the Dollhouse, about being a Doll– which isn’t much, or at least anything helpful. The brain chemistry stuff is way out of Bob’s league. The last time he took biology was 10th grade, and he’s pretty sure that was mostly the dissecting frogs type.

“I wish you knew how to change me,” Frank says one day, tapping a finger on the side of his temple. “Take them away, you know? Now that I know they’re not mine, I just. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have any at all.”

Once they were all out drinking and Pete got completely sloshed, said something about being able to return Actives to Doll-state, without the chair. Bragging about it, a little, like he would¬. Bob mentions it – stupid, really, _why_ – and Frank lights up.

“Do it. If you know how, do it, I …”

“Remote deactivation won’t change you back,” Bob says sharply. “Not to… to who you were. Just back to being a Doll. You’d be like a child. Worse,” he continues, ruthlessly. “Bland, happy, stupid, trusting, no personality. A sitting duck.” He thinks of Brendon, of all the Dolls, their blank and trusting naivety. He’s angry, suddenly, and it’s not really at Frank but Frank’s the only one _here_. “I’m gonna,” he starts, and then just goes outside. A walk. A walk would be good.

| |

“I don’t know how to do it anyway,” Bob says, later. “This stuff, it’s… there are only so many people in the _world_ who understand it. Who could fix you. I wouldn’t even know where to begin to look.”

“I know,” Frank says, gentler than Bob would give him credit for. Or maybe just more defeated. “I just… how can _anything_ be real, if most of what’s in my head is made up?”

Bob shrugs. “I dunno. Is most of what’s real that stuff that goes on in your head?”

“Huh.” Frank takes another swig of beer. “Now I wanna watch _The Matrix_.”

Pete worships _The Matrix_. Pete is one of the people who could fix Frank. Bob knows where Pete lives, but even if Bob could trust him, even Beckett wasn't having Wentz watched, Pete doesn't have what he needs to fix Frank at his house. Cassadee either. Bob wouldn’t trust Cassadee under that kind of pressure anyway. Busting into the Dollhouse isn’t an option either. Bob helped with the security – it’s not going to happen, he knows that. Not without a tank or his own faction of Black Ops. The more time goes by, the more apparent it becomes he didn’t think this whole thing through.

Bob nods. “You get the beer, I’ll hook up the DVD player?”

Then he gets distracted because Frank has done something like beaten his own high score on Wii bowling and spends fifteen minutes running around the house crowing about it, and Bob doesn’t much care about the rest.

| |

On Frank’s night off, they go to the bar where he works and get drunk for cheap. Deleon-or-Singer Alex is DD-ing for his douchebag boyfriend and offers to drive them home. They manage to get back to the house without too much trouble, and Bob half-carries, half-supports Frank into the house, where they collapse on the couch.

Frank starts pestering Bob about the Dollhouse. It’s… old, except not really, because Bob’s pretty obsessed with it too.

“So I’m trying to… I mean. So I was, what?” Frank asks. “A whore?”

Bob’s hand briefly tightens in the fabric of the couch. After a moment, he says, “if anything, a highly – _highly_ ,” – he would like to emphasize the highly – “…priced escort.”

Frank snorts.

“No no no no,” Bob says, because once he starts it gets a little hard to finish. “No, seriously. I don’t know how expensive, but at least seven figures.”

Frank stills. “Seriously?”

“They were paying me high six,” Bob says honestly. “Higher risk jobs, people would pay through the nose for you.”

He and Frank give each other a sideways look, like they’re just realizing how ridiculous the conversation is. Or that he’s trying to reassure Frank by convincing him he was at least a _high class_ rent. They start to snicker, and it’s awhile before they can stop.

“So why’d you do it?” Frank asks suddenly, drunk-serious. “Why’d you… why’d you help me, and run if … Why’d you give up your life for, for all this?” he asks, and waves a hand around their living room.

“Don’t know, really,” Bob says, because he still doesn’t. “It was my job to protect you. I mean, I was a cop, I always… occupational hazard. Personality hazard. It’s what I do, I just… It didn’t always mean the way they told me to. And I couldn’t shut it off when they told me not to.”

Frank hums a little in response, and they both fall asleep on the couch even though Bob’s back is completely fucked the next morning. Frank offers to walk on it but that way traction lies, so Bob just tells him he can make breakfast. Lunch. A meal for whatever time it is.

Frank makes pancakes which this special wheat flour or some shit, which are vaguely too chewy but all right with a small flood of syrup. Bob eats two, then when it looks like his stomach is willing to handle it, three more. Frank eats four and possibly some of the batter as well. Which is… whatever. Not worth the fight.

Bob does the dishes, and tries to ignore the way Frank is hovering behind him, moving from the counter to the table and back again, bouncing as he does it. If Bob asks, he’ll say nothing is wrong, then scurry off and be emo for the rest of the day. Better to just let him come out with it whenever.

He gets through the glasses, the silverware, the plates, the mixing bowl, and is about to start the pan when Frank pipes up.

“You said. You said sometimes the Dolls broke. Went wrong.” Bob doesn’t have to turn around to know Frank is chewing on his bottom lip. “ _What_ went wrong?”

“They glitched. Or Composited.” Bob washes the pan, sets it in the drainer. “Basically memories that should have been Wiped were still there.”

“Did anyone ever…?”

He turns around to face Frank. “The last guy who glitched killed three people.” That hangs a little heavier in the kitchen than Bob expected. “Granted, that was in Doll state. No Programming. But I’m not,” he makes an expansive gesture. “This is not my thing, I don’t know. I think it would be like… like if suddenly you had memories that don’t feel like they’re yours. People you don’t have names for. Suddenly being able to do something you couldn’t do before.” Bob tries to remember anything about Robert he was ever told, anything Pete said, or the other Handlers let slip. “I mean, you’ve been good so far, right?”

Frank shrugs, forcedly nonchalant. “What would you do? If I started to glitch?”

Bob huffs. Frank looks stricken, now, and Bob doesn’t know how exactly to convey _I trust you, not so sure about your brain chemistry_. “Hide the sharp knives?” Also, the guns. Better than last time.

Frank’s giggle is nervous, sudden. “Did you know I know how to kill people with my bare hands?”

Bob does, in fact, know this. He ignores the way the hand holding Frank’s cigarette is shaking and goes to lean up on the counter next to Frank. The top of Frank’s head is roughly even with his armpit. “I think I could take you.”

Frank grins just as suddenly, mercurial as always. “Fuck you. Not everyone is a goddamn _Viking_ , Bryar,” he says cheerfully, and bumps Bob’s hip with his own.

| |

It’s a miserable night. Cold. Rain making soft sounds on the roof, just eerie and unsettling enough to have the opposite effect of lulling Bob to sleep.

He hears feet in the hallway. Frank. Light footsteps that start off slow, slow, slow, then all of a sudden hurried, like he’s afraid he’s going to lose his nerve. It’s how Frank does most things – _maybe, wait, I don’t know, fuckitletsgo_!

A light tap on the door before Frank pushes it open. Tiny little feet, white and probably cold. Toes curled under.

“Bob?”

“Yeah. Everything okay?”

“I’m. Yeah, everything’s okay.” Frank runs one hand through his hair. “Can I come in?”

Frank gets nightmares, sometimes. Fucking horrendous ones he says he can’t remember after he wakes up, but the actually waking up part – the screaming, the sweat-soaked sheets – seems bad enough.

“Sure, come on,” Bob says, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Frank takes a running leap and clambers onto Bob’s bed with none of the grace that Bob knows he has, that Frank _always_ had, even strolling blank-faced through the Dollhouse.

Bob allows himself a moment. One moment. One press of his lips to Frank’s, one scratch of stubble on his face, one touch of slim fingers to his chest, cool and shaking with nerves. He doesn’t even close his eyes, and he sees the look on Frank’s face when he pushes Frank away.

“Frank. Frank, no.”

“Bob, please, I want…”

“You don’t know what you want,” Bob says harshly. “You don’t even know who the hell… you’re not even _you_.”

“I’m somebody,” Frank shoots back, fists clenching in the sheets. “And yeah, maybe that’s not Francis Anthony Iero, but it’s the only person I am. Probably the only person I’ll ever be.” His voice wavers. “So – so fuck you. Why’d you save me if you didn’t think I was a real person anyway.”

“Frank.” Bob grabs his arm. “It’s not.” Bob doesn’t know how to say it – that one day Frank could be himself again, the _real_ Frank, and then he’s going to feel different. And even if he isn’t – right now he’s _programmed_ to trust Bob – to listen to him, to like him, who knows what else. Anything this is built on isn’t real. He thinks of Brendon, and Tom, and – and Bob’s never been in the business of deluding himself. He thinks of all the people Frank might have to go back to, all the history Frank doesn’t know he has. All the futures that Bob and Beckett and people like them have killed.

“I can’t,” he says finally. “I just can’t.” And he lies awake in bed long after Frank quickly hops out of the bed, and slowly treads back to his room.

“You _are_ a real person,” he whispers, and it’s too bad it’s only to an empty room.

| |

Bob gets up the next morning like usual. Makes a pot of coffee, drinks half and leaves the rest for Frank with the sugar already out, even though Bob doesn’t use it. At work, Alex-squared invites him out to some music show at the college. Apparently they’re in a band with douchebag Cash – who has somehow managed to grow on Bob, like the proverbial fungus – and some other kid, Ian, who can shred like nobody’s business, if Singer-Deleon’s wide-eyed and springy-haired enthusiasm is to be believed. Bob calls home to leave Frank a message, that he’ll be late and to get dinner without him. It’s SP not to answer the phone, so Bob’s not worried.

When he comes home the door’s ajar. And Frank’s a messy fuck as far as the kitchen and his room are concerned, but he’s not stupid. He’s not careless.

Bob doesn’t carry his gun in the day-to-day. He doesn’t want anyone to see it, he doesn’t want to have to explain it, he _really_ doesn’t want to get in trouble for carrying around something that’s technically not his. He’d be back on Beckett’s radar in a second. He’s kind of regretting that decision now. When he steps in the place doesn’t look ransacked. But when he goes down the foyer the gun taped under the front shelf is gone – not a good sign no matter who has it – glances in the kitchen quickly, then in the living room.

Frank’s tied up on the floor, angry, but mostly afraid. There’s – it’s dark, that could be blood, that could be a _lot_ of blood…

Bob hears the click of a gun safety from the darker corner of the room. He freezes. “There’s money in the kitchen,” he says cautiously, even though he knows it’s not a B&E. A burglar would never have gotten him _and_ Frank, even on a bad day. But if it was Beckett, they’d either be dead or on their way back to the Dollhouse. Bob doesn’t know _what_ this is, and that makes him more uneasy than either of the first two options. “In one of the bottom cabinets. Just don’t hurt anyone.”

“Turn around,” someone says. A man. Raspy voice. “Hands high on the wall.”

Bob obliges. Not much of a choice. Not like this, gun gone, Frank tied up, when he doesn’t even know if anyone else is in the house.

“Now hands behind your back. Slow.”

Again, Bob obliges. Then the quiet zip of a pair of flexicuffs being put on. Tight. The plastic digging into his wrists.

“Why don’t you sit down,” the voice suggests. “Get comfortable.”

Bob sits.

And then their intruder steps into the light. He’s wearing red sneakers, a hoodie, jeans. His hair is longer. Greasier, unkempt. But it’s him.

“Robert,” Bob says. “What do you want?”

The part that surprises Bob – okay, the part besides how Robert is _alive_ , although Bob really shouldn’t have trusted Beckett’s word on fucking _anything_ – is how fucking tiny he is. As tiny as Frank, easily, and Bob smolders for a minute at being taken down that easily before he remembers that, oh yeah, this guy killed three people last anyone knew.

Robert grins – like a jackal, Bob thinks, like he’s enjoying showing every one of his teeth.

“See, _you_ know who I am,” he coos, and one of the only things visible in the room is the glint from his knife. “That just makes this easier.”

| |

It gets bad, but not the worst it’s ever been – Bob’s wrists still have that honor. He tells Robert about the Dollhouse, about running, everything Robert asks, over and over. He tells him things he heard, he overheard, things he just supposes.

“Bob. Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob,” Robert chants, “I get the feeling you’re not paying attention.”

“You’re asking the same questions,” he says wearily. “And it’s all the same answers.” He’s worried about Frank. Bob’s not sure how long Robert was here before he came home, but it looks like a while. From the blood. From the way Frank’s leaning to one side, listless.

“Hmm. True. I guess we’re done here.” Robert tilts his head to the side, like a bird before it pounces on the worm. “If you’ve lied to me,” he says finally, “I’m going to carve the sparrows out of his stomach.”

Bob’s stomach twists so hard he thinks he’s going to puke.

“Now.” Robert pops back up. “I’m going to leave the knife over here, okay? For the restraints. Don’t go for it until I’m outside, or Frank gets the end of the one still in my shoe.” Robert’s voice is bizarrely cheerful. “He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. And you’re going to need to fix the basement window. Better locks, this time. It’s tiny, but so’m I, and I think we’ve all seen how well that went.” He ducks through the entryway, and Bob counts thirty seconds – the thirty slowest fucking seconds of his _life_ – before he goes for the knife.

It takes a minute to get free, to get over to Frank and pull the rag out of his mouth. Cut the ties on his wrists.

“Cocksucker,” Frank rasps, and reaches up to press on what looks like a broken nose. “Him, I mean, just – fuck, Bob, I thought –”

Bob runs his hands over Frank’s arms, his legs. “Want a treatment?” he whispers, not quite sure why he’s whispering, and Frank’s stomach ripples under Bob’s hands, desperate laughter not-quite-caught in his chest.

There are some bruises, shallow cuts. A longer one on his chest, but still not far into the surface. Which makes sense – you torture someone by inflicting pain, not by piercing an internal organ – but Robert didn’t seem like he was operating on all cylinders, and Bob’s just – _glad_. Too grim to really feel it right now, but it’s there.

“Hold this,” Bob says grimly, and presses the knife into Frank’s other hand. “I’m gonna go—”

Frank nods. His eyes are wide and even in the dark he looks ghostly fucking pale. “Yeah, okay.”

Bob relocks the door, checks the windows. There’s repair work to be done on the basement window, like Robert said, so Bob locks the door to the cellar and then drags the bookshelf in front of it for good measure. Not impossible to get around, but impossible to do so without making some noise.

Bob grabs the first-aid kit from the kitchen and heads back to the living room, clomping loudly the whole way so Frank doesn’t get crazy with the knife. Frank’s got the knife in one hand, the rag catching the blood still coming from his nose.

“Here,” Bob says. “Bite on the rag.”

“Gross,” Frank whines, briefly, but does it. Bob pops Frank’s nose back into joint. “Mgghn.”

“Good. Now lie back.” Frank spits out the rag, and Bob peels away what’s left of Frank’s shirt to peer at the wound. Jesus. He’s gotta pull himself together. “A few stitches,” he says finally. “Just let me – I’ll go to that clinic on Elm tomorrow, see if I can’t sweet-talk Jane into giving me more antibiotics.” Bob can buy the painkillers elsewhere. Hell, Cash probably knows. Him and the Alexes are really only into weed, but they probably know somebody.

“Bob. Bob, dude, are _you_ okay?”

He knows Frank’s talking about how Bert was whaling on him, about the ache in his shoulder and the two teeth on the left side of his mouth that feel dangerously loose, the black eye that’s swelling so bad he might not be able to see later, but that’s not what he cares about right now.

“I don’t want to stay here,” he bursts out, and makes a round-about motion with his hands. The house, he doesn’t – “I don’t think he’ll come back, but I can’t…” There’s a bloodstain on their carpet, and glass all over the basement floor, the space Frank keeps trying to convince him is perfect space for a puppy. Bob had almost given in. God help him, he’s a sucker for strays.

“Bob.” Frank’s hand curls in the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

“Yeah.” Bob lets his forehead rest on Frank’s shoulder. Just one minute, one long breath, just to steady himself.

He’s been a cop since he was twenty years old, and he’s been pretending he wasn’t gay for longer. Not to himself. Bob always knew what he was. But he had to pretend, for other people. The occasional random hook-up was no problem. But for all the kinky one-offs telling people he was a cop got him, a relationship was never going to happen for him. Not while he was on the force, not with the hours he kept, not when he couldn’t be out without losing his job, or being a spearhead for a fucking movement. He’s used to keeping his feelings locked down, sublimating them into other things. He lost two of his partners on the force before getting paired up with Brian. He watched one of them bleed out before the paramedics even got there, and he’s never – he’s still never felt anything like this. Not when Frank was shot the first time. Not when the doctors told him his wrists would never be right again. He never felt _this_. He didn’t know he could.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” he says finally, and scoops Frank up like he doesn’t weigh a thing. His shoulder holds, so it’s gotta be okay.

“This damsel in distress shit is getting old,” Frank grumbles. “Why’m I always getting hurt?”

I took two arrows for you once, even if you don’t remember, Bob wants to say. I left my home and my family and my friends, to live in a shitty house with mold in the basement and asbestos in the walls, because the thought of you dead was painful enough to lose it all. He wants to say it, because sometimes he doesn’t think Frank really _gets_ it, you know? But then he realizes that’s not what matters. Not even that he did it. Only that he loved Frank enough to bother.

He takes Frank to his bedroom and tucks him in carefully, fuck the state of the sheets tomorrow. Then he grabs painkillers from the bathroom along with a glass of water – because swallowing pills dry is apparently a life skill Pete _didn’t_ think was relevant – and makes Frank swallow four before popping two himself and setting the bottle on the nightstand.

“Thanks,” Frank slurs, and Bob crawls into bed with him. Frank turns to look at him then, all wide eyes. No amusement, none of his normal mischief. Scared serious.

Bob moves carefully. He’s solid, and Frank is tiny – Bob honestly doesn’t think of him that way, often, but it’s a physical truth, and right now Frank looks almost _fragile_ , and Bob just – He presses his lips to the crown of Frank’s head, sweaty matted hair. Reminds himself to breathe, again.

“Of course you’d crawl into my bed now,” Frank says finally, half-asleep, half-heartedly wriggling around to find the most comfortable position. Part painkillers, part post-adrenaline coma. “Motherfucker.”

“I’ll be here,” Bob says, and he doesn’t mean _tonight_ or _until you’re better_ or _until you kick me out_. He means better or worse, he means Frank or Francis Iero, programming or no programming, thief or cop or Doll or client, forever and ever. Bob fucking loves Frank, okay, it doesn’t matter if it won’t last, because what the fuck will? It doesn’t matter if it’s not real, because what the fuck is _real_? What the fuck could be more real than the feeling in the pit of Bob’s stomach when Robert cut into Frank, when Bob finally and truly realized the terrible, cold possibility of losing him?

“Go to sleep,” he says again. “I’ll be here.”


	2. shake you down to the drawng board

Pete is genuinely burdened by his genius. He likes to say this when he’s drunk, complete with an exaggerated frown and expansive gestures, and usually to the amusement of whatever captive audience he’s managed to find. He lies about what he does, generally – lies wildly. He tells people he’s Brangelina’s personal translator or Paris Hilton’s traveling DJ, or that he does research on childhood leukemia or the God particle, mostly depending on whether the last thing he watched was TMZ TV or the Discovery Channel.

The best part is, no matter how ridiculous he gets, his real job is even more ridiculous still.

| |

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third graduates from University of Chicago in three years, does his grad work at University of Wisconsin-Madison, in the Keck Lab, and graduates top of his class both times. His professors like him and his peers like him even more – which is an accomplishment, Pete assures himself, considering how bitchy and backstabbing more academics get when grant money is on the line – but he’s got a reputation for being a little crazy. Not absent-minded professor crazy, or Rodney McKay antisocial egomaniacal crazy, but the kind of crazy where he thinks twenty steps ahead of everyone and refuses to shut up about it.

He also had to take his ethics course three times before he passed. There is that.

So he’s brilliant and he’s well-liked, but he can’t find post-grad work. Not real work. He gets a soul-suckingly boring job mapping neural chemistry at U of C, but its never going anywhere. He’s never going anywhere, and he’s quietly and increasingly contemplating (career) suicide when he gets the call.

The number is unregistered. The voice on the phone is smooth, soft, but perfectly crisp. And it, as they say, makes him an offer he can’t refuse. Or, okay, doesn’t want to.

“An envelope will be delivered to your house tomorrow. A confidentiality agreement. Once the papers are signed and delivered to the address noted inside, an interview will be scheduled.” A pause, then – “It would be a shame for you to miss this opportunity, Dr. Wentz.”

Opportunities are pretty fucking thin on the ground these days. Particularly the kind that come with $10,000 straight off, just to listen. Pete’s more than a little leery, but he has his dad look the contract over and give it the lawyerly okay before he signs. It’s a heavy gag order, but it could be a government job, a big corporation, any number of things. All good things, as far as Pete is concerned.

The next phone call tells Pete to wait on the corner of Fifth and Firesmith. A black van drives up, and they actually fucking _blindfold_ him, how cool is that? Dude One sits in the back with him while Dude Two drives, and drives, and drives, until Pete asks to stop at the nearest Starbucks, jesus fuck. That gets him a snort from Dude Two, and they pull into an underground parking garage a few minutes later. Dude One pulls him into an elevator and Dude Two takes off the blindfold.

When the elevator opens, a tall thin man in a suit is waiting. Longer brown hair, very… pretty. He shakes Pete’s hand with a slight, almost mischievous smile. The design of the building is beautiful, lots of wood, plants, glass panels. Very beautiful, if cased in.

“Mr. Wentz,” – _voice from the telephone_ , Pete’s brain fills in helpfully – “So happy you’ve come. My name is William Beckett. Shall we go to my office?” He gestures, and Pete follows Dude One and Dude Two.

The office is sleekly elegant – this whole _place_ is. Different from the glass and steel lab settings Pete is used too; more austere, but no less expensive. Pete hasn’t seen the lab, but he’s nearly _salivating_.

Beckett makes himself an espresso and offers one to Pete, which he greedily accepts. Beckett settles behind his desk in one graceful motion, and folds his hands on the edge of the blotter.

“What do you know,” he asks, “About the Dollhouse?”

It takes Pete a moment to put it all together. The blandly smiling people walking around downstairs in yoga wear, the freakishly expensive office, the entirely underground _building_ , the intense security posted at every corner. Not to mention the girl in full geisha uniform Pete passed on the way in.

“Oh man,” Pete breathes. “No _way_.” He’s brilliant, okay, he admits it, but there’s no way in hell he’s this lucky. He waits for like, Ashton Kutcher or whoever to pop out from behind a corner.

Beckett grins like the Cheshire Cat. “Way, Mr. Wentz.”

| |

They talk science for an hour, _real_ science, the kind Pete doesn’t have to dumb down, and even if it takes a little while to get used to talking to someone with two bodyguards standing right behind them, Pete’s over it by the time they talk about the possibilities in reclustering inhibitors to offset neural dissonance.

“Well.” Beckett folds his hands – long fingers, Pete notes idly, then shuts it off because _hello_ , new Boss – and says, “I assume you’re interested in the job?”

Pete nods dumbly. Who wouldn’t be?”

“Then let’s talk about salary.” He writes down a figure and slides it across the desk.

Well. That _would_ take care of the student loans.

“Per month,” Beckett says, smile curling into something more like a smirk, and Pete can’t help the way his eyes widen. “We also prefer that you would train an assistant. We have a short list for you to look over, but we leave the matter, of course, utterly to your discretion.”

(One of the researchers on the list is Cassadee Pope, who he remembers from his undergrad at U of Chicago. Cassadee went onto study at Emory, he thinks, but if she’s as quirky as Pete remembers, she should do just fine.)

“Awesome,” Pete breathes, and Beckett smiles again.

“I think you’ll fit in here just fine, Mr. Wentz,” he says. “Just fine.”

| |

So yeah, long story short? Pete has the best job in the _world_. He gets paid the big bucks to make up back-stories for people, to _program their brains_ , to do all the stuff his professors said he could do – and okay, he’s gonna have to wait _forever_ to actually print the goddamn papers and get his Nobel and mass adoration, but whatever, best job in the universe, he’ll deal.

Like he deals with Beckett, for example.

“We have a new Potential coming in this afternoon.” Beckett bursts into Pete’s office unannounced, as usual. Pete thinks Beckett has a flair for the dramatic he rarely sees fit to indulge.

Pete rolls his eyes and then spins around in his chair. “Since you’ve burst in I’m going to assume something about our new Doll is worth noting. Something you see interfering with the Wipe process?”

Beckett ignores him, more or less. “Our new Doll, Mr. Stump, will be a bit unorthodox. Not only will you be recording his personality and memory for eventual reinstallation, but he has certain skills we would like to preserve for future imprints.”

“Skills?”

Beckett’s lip curls. “He’s something of a musical genius, I’m told. Various instruments, as well as composition and theory. With the considerable talents others have already supplied, we should have quite the catalogue to which our clients may attend. You should feel free to gather whatever other personality correlates you find appealing, of course. I’m told he’s rather shy. Quite the temper, as well.” Beckett shrugs elegantly. “One never knows what a client will request.”

Pete nods, attention already focused on the computer screen and the creation of a new file. Stumph, Patrick Vaughn. “One never knows.”

| |

The thing is, when Patrick Vaughn Stumph actually walks into his office, Pete doesn’t expect to feel so attracted to him. He certainly doesn’t except to be so charmed.

The attraction isn’t so unusual. Beckett has yet to pick a Potential that wasn’t drop dead gorgeous in one way or another – be it tall, sleek Mikey or pretty, bubbly Greta – but being charmed is something that happens to Pete less and less often these days, if it happens at all.

Patrick is cute. Shy little puppy cute, with ginger hair and pale, soft-looking skin, and a _mouth_ – yeah, Beckett knew what he was doing when he recruited this one.

"Patrick Vaughn Stump," Pete begins, unusually delighted. "And how are you this morning?"

"Uhm. Okay?" Patrick offers uncertainly, and fiddles with the brim of his hat. It's dark green, presumably to match the dark green running through his argyle sweater. He's also wearing knee high socks, and _shorts_. If Pete didn't know that Beckett was completely without a sense of whimsy, he'd assume Patrick was the Dollhouse version of a birthday stripper. "A little nervous, I guess."

"Duly noted. Had much caffeine this morning?"

Patrick gives him a weird look.

"No, seriously, I'm testing you up and down, dude, tell me what you've ingested."

"Oh. Uhm. Blueberry muffin and a small coffee?"

Pete shudders. "A small coffee? How do you _survive_? I send Cassadee to Starbucks at _least_ three times a day."

"Cassadee?"

"My assistant. I think I'm supposed to let her do stuff, but really, a genius needs coffee, am I right?" Pete doesn't wait for an answer. "Okay, we're gonna start with some basics -- personality tests, psych tests, blah blah. It's mostly boring, but Beckett insists on the preliminaries. Tell me when you're bored enough to start thinking about killing yourself." Patrick snorts, and Pete gives him his best dead-serious stare. "No, really, it'll screw up the results."

Patrick stares back at him blankly.

Pete grins. He likes to keep new people on their toes.

| |

By the end of the first three hours, Pete knows that Patrick has a tendency to drum against the edge of the table when he’s nervous, a fairly exhaustive knowledge of any music created in the last eighty years, and a shyness that covers a temper worthy of a redhead -- as a side note, do not make fun of the sweater vest, do not call him Patty, do _not_ touch the hat.

The next few hours are scanning, which is boring. _Can_ be boring. All Patrick has to do is lie there. MRIs, EEGs, fMRI; measuring rCBF, EKG, heart rate, skin conductance, so Pete can create a baseline for both Imprint and future Doll state. Talking with Patrick, though, that's... that's fun. They argue about music for a good hour, about the Chicago music scene for longer than that. And the thing is, they're flirting. Really _flirting_ , even though at first Patrick’s so nervous about the process he’s about to jump out of his skin, and Pete -- Pete flirts like he breathes, he knows. He’s just that kind of guy. Charming, his mom used to say, charming like the devil – which he chooses to take as a compliment, thanks mom. But this? With Patrick? He grins when Patrick grins. He laughs when Patrick laughs. He wants to breathe when Patrick breathes, smile when Patrick smiles, love what Patrick loves -- excepting Patrick's obsession with Bowie's Thin White Duke stuff, because _seriously_.

"It's _amazing_ ," Patrick argues for the fifth time, stubbornly. "You were totally one of those kids who saw him in Labyrinth and _then_ decided he was cool, didn't you?"

"If you pretend to dislike that movie, so help me god," Pete begins, and then the computer beeps to remind him its done scanning. "... so help me, I will redo all these scans." A few keystrokes and they're saved, tucked away for further perusing. Pete can't wait to poke through his personality correlates. He's going to spend hours and hours in Patrick's head -- sifting through his memories, looking for all the ways Patrick differentiates from the other Imprints Pete already has on file, tooling through Patrick's neuro-structural reassembly. It's totally obsessive-stalkery, but if you talk to any of Pete's ex-girlfriends, they'll probably mention that charming character trait.

"Alright, this test is going to be a little different. I need you to lean back."

"What's this one?" Patrick asks warily. Not that Pete could blame him. It had been a battle just to get him to take the hat off so Pete could put electrodes on.

"I'm testing your... well, let’s call it your imprintability. I'm going to Imprint a list of words in your brain, and you're going to remember it like you read the list in the testing room a few hours ago, even though you didn't. Like a fake memory. Then I'm going to ask you some questions. See how well your brain picked it up."

Patrick's hands tighten against the edge handrests. "What if I don't do well?"

Pete shrugs. "Well, there's varying degrees of “well”. Some of the others here Imprint easier than others, but it’s rare someone's plasticity is completely problematic. Now lean back, dude, time's a wasting. This is the last thing I need from you. At least for today."

"Okay," Patrick says finally, and leans back.

| |

Pete can just about see the second Patrick snaps back into focus. His eyelashes flutter, rapidly, and there's a burst of color to his cheeks. "Did I. What just."

"Test run over!" Pete says cheerfully. He’s found it’s best not to let Candidates think about these things. "I've got plenty of analysis to run on what I got today, but I'm gonna say it looks good. Good neural plasticity, good imprint. Beckett gives the go-ahead, I can totally Doll you up."

Funny. That never sounded pervy any other time Pete said it. Or possibly no one ever told him.

"Okay. Okay. Okay-okay-okay." Patrick takes a deep breath, and Pete has to stop himself from putting a hand on Patrick's shoulder. For moral support. "Okay. Thanks, uhm." Patrick shuffles from foot to foot before shaking his head. "Yeah. Just thanks."

"Just doing my job, good sir," Pete says, and throws off a salute. "Be seeing you again, I'm sure."

| |

Beckett gives the all-clear two days later, after Pete hands in his final report and Ray does the physical examination. Pete finds himself a little at odds, some strange combination of disappointment and anticipation.

“Is it going to hurt?” Patrick asks, as soon as he's in the chair.

Yes. Like the fucking devil, if everyone's spasms are anything to go by -- but Patrick won't remember it, so. “You’ll feel a pinch, for a second. Then the next thing you know – another pinch, your term will be up, and you’ll walk out of here like nothing happened.”

“Or I don’t wake up at all,” Patrick says flatly.

“Well, yeah,” Pete drawls, which startles a laugh out of Patrick. “But at least you won’t know, right?”

“Right.” Patrick’s hands tighten, gripping the armrests until his knuckles are white. “Right. Small comforts.”

“Okay. Ready, ‘Trick?” Pete asks softly, and Patrick nods. “Okay. Just a pinch, I promise.”

“It’s for my mom,” Patrick bursts out, suddenly, and Pete’s hand hovers over the controls. “Doing this, I mean, she. She’s sick. Really sick, and we don’t have insurance, and the bastards probably wouldn’t cover it if we did. There’s this… Beckett has a treatment. Something experimental, but better than nothing, you know? And she’ll get money, too, while I’m gone, and.” Patrick takes a deep breath. “And after this – after this I’ll go to college, and study music, and even if I never really go anywhere Beckett’s throwing enough fucking money at me for it not to matter.”

They stare at each other for a minute. “Also,” Pete says slowly, though not completely unkindly, “you might want to look into therapy.”

“Yeah, I’ll probably have money for that too,” Patrick says, and he and Pete share a gallows humor grin. “Sorry, just… I can’t talk to anyone about this. I signed papers until my wrists ached, and I. I just want someone to know. Just in case I never have anyone to tell.”

Something in Pete’s chest clenches, hard. “That won’t happen. I promise, it won’t. Not while I'm Programming you."

Patrick tilts his head. "That's..."

"Fucked up?" Pete suggests. He realizes. He's just starting to realize.

"I was gonna say sweet. Like, weirdly sweet. So yeah, fucked up works too." Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. "Just... just do it, please. Do it."

Pete does.

| |

Something in Pete dies a little when Patrick opens his eyes again. Still brilliant green, but emptier. Duller.

“Did I fall asleep?”

Pete has to clear his throat before he can speak. “For a little while.”

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.”

Pete always gets a little nostalgic, a little sad, a little proud, watching someone walk out of his office and into the Dollhouse, but this time – somehow, this time, it’s like someone actually died.

| |

Patrick – Doll Patrick – is fairly interesting to watch. Brendon’s natural curiosity immediately demands that he go scope Patrick out. Which Patrick allows, to a point, before he begins to curl up into the couch and away from physical contact. Spencer and Ryan have wandered over by then, with Jon trailing behind by a moment or two, at which point Brendon bounces among the three of them, and Patrick relaxes.

Over the next few days it quickly becomes clear that Patrick prefers Travis and Greta to the other Dolls. Travis and Patrick have the same quiet gravity to them – Travis will spend hours painting, utterly intense, and Patrick seems to be the only Doll with the attention span to handle the occasional quirky conversation Travis requires while he does it. Greta, on the other hand, is very soothing. Maternal. _Angelic_ , Siska once said, and Pete agrees. Whenever she asks, “shall I go now?” he feels vaguely reproached. He’s not sure if it’s all in his head, or if it’s a neural kink he should be working out.

Beckett gives Patrick a few days to settle into the Dollhouse before assigning him a Handler – Joe, who is a good, solid dude if there ever was such a thing. Unlike Gabe, who is a fun guy but flies his freak flag a little high, or Katy, who seems mostly disinterested, or Tom, who’s more or less in it for the money. If Patrick has a Handler, it should be a guy like Joe.

Patrick peaks around the corner – without his hat, God. Pete knew him for what, _eight hours_ , and he knows how wrong that is – and timidly knocks on Pete’s door.

“Is it time for my treatment?”

“Yes, yes, come on in. Sit in the chair.”

Patrick obediently sits down. When he notices Joe standing in the corner of the room his eyes widen. “Hello. Your hair is _huge_.”

Joe laughs. “Sometimes, yeah.”

Patrick smiles, and Joe grins back. “I like it.”

“I hate to break up the lovefest, but we’ve got some programming to do,” Pete says sourly. “Joe, you know how this goes, right?”

Joe nods, and Patrick continues smiling blankly.

“Let’s get rolling,” Pete mutters, and doesn’t look when Joe begins the script.

| |

Patrick smiles whenever he comes in for treatment. Pete can’t remember if he originally programmed that or not, but it’s starting to bother him.

Generally, Patrick Imprints run towards the sweet and innocent – the way Mikey’s are usually cold and aloof, or Frank’s usually have an edge of danger. Sometimes Patrick says or does things that are almost Patrick-like, _almost_ right, and Pete grins at him before he remembers any better, before he realizes that Patrick’s shy but without the temper underneath, or Patrick thinks he likes boy bands, or something equally horrifying. But it’s… good, in a sense. Patrick’s fine. His Engagements go well, Joe looks after him. _He’s_ fine.

But the rest of it goes to shit. The rest of it goes fucking… fucking _sideways_ , with Robert, oh Jesus. Pete’s in his office when it happens, he doesn’t even – nobody screams, because the Dolls don’t know anything happened. Travis walks into Pete’s office covered in blood. Pete finds blood slicked through Mikey’s hair, in five perfect fingerprints on Spencer’s cheek. They walk around Brent’s body like they weren’t just having breakfast with him an hour ago. Robert finally trips the alarm when he leaves, and they find Matty P. dead, Worm nearly torn apart. Pete sees them bring the pieces into Ray’s office. Worm was a big dude. It takes a few trips.

Pete checks out, for a while. Checks out fluoxetine, paroxetine, whatever his therapist shoves at him – benzos, when he can get his hands on them. He comes so close to losing it that he finds Beckett looking at him, sideways.

“You’re brilliant,” Beckett says, smiling in that way he has, the polite one that perfectly conveys his unamusement. “But you’re not replaceable.” And he lets one hand rest briefly over the back of Pete’s head.

One day Pete is – high is probably not the word for it, maybe ‘chemically altered’ works better – but he’s on the verge of losing it, obviously, because he Imprints Patrick as himself. _Patrick_ ¬-Patrick, the way he was and the way he should be, and when Patrick opens his eyes he looks so sweetly confused, so fucking hopeful that it’s over, that it’s time, it tears something in Pete’s fucking _soul_ , and he stumbles over himself to get back to the computer.

“I’m sorry,” Pete blurts, fingers already whirling over the keys. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. Oh Jesus, Patrick – ” The light behind Patrick’s head flashes brighter and brighter. “I’m sorry.”

The thing is, people aren’t built like computers, even though Pete likes to explain it like that. They’re more like… canvases. Pete paints, then scrapes, then paints then scrapes then paints again, hoping none of the previous layers bleed through. Before he booted Patrick back in, it should have been – he should have scraped the _fuck_ out of all the Imprints that were there before. But he didn’t, he didn’t wait, he doesn’t know why he didn’t, he just –

“Did I fall asleep?”

Pete runs one hand over his eyes. “Just. Just for a little while.”

“Shall I go now?”

“Please.” Pete’s voice breaks, a little. “Please.”

| |

Jesus. He realizes exactly what he’s doing. He has _lost_ it, officially fucking lost it, being so obsessed, being so _stupid_.

He resolves to ask someone out, to go and do something with someone outside in the real world. There was a cute redhead-who-used-to-be-blonde downstairs. They’ve made conversation in the elevator, sometimes. Pete’s started off with worse. Pete’s last girlfriend? They fucked in the back of her car the first night they met, at some house party, and he’d puked all over her shoes. Her ugly shoes. He even told her they were ugly. He’s not quite sure how that relationship lasted so long, but regardless – Pete needs to go out. Hang with some people. He’s turned into his _dad_. Well, his dad with a slight drug dependency and a much cooler job, but still. Old-like. Boring.

He sees the redhead-who-used-to-be-a-blonde a few days later in the laundry room, folding her shirts. Pete is coming off his, well, everything pill-shaped, so he’s a little shaky, but his grin is firm.

“Hi,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve ever really met. I’m Pete.”

| |

Her name is Ashlee, with two e’s. She likes Thai food and bad movies, she’s a terrible dancer and a surprisingly good bowler. They sleep together after their third date, which is a movie and baking cookies. She likes chocolate chip too, with extra chocolate chips, which they have for breakfast the next morning before Pete leaves for work. She looks good even in his neon green hoodie.

They move in together a few months later. A nicer place, uptown – Pete can afford just about anything, and Ashlee insists on paying her half. “Daddy’s money,” she says, wrinkling her nose – which she fixed when she was nineteen, she told him, tired of being the “ugly sister” – and Pete blows raspberries on her cheek, arms, stomach, whatever he can reach while she flails. Pete likes her hair, whatever the color. Her smile. The snort in her laugh. That she sings when she cooks and not in the shower, and that she doesn’t make fun when Pete sings in the shower. She doesn’t mind when Pete keeps weird hours, they just go to late shows or clubs or watch movies in bed. She likes sparkly expensive things but she likes stupid ones too. She digs 80’s movies and 80’s fashion and isn’t afraid to act like a dork in public. For their six-month anniversary he writes her a love song and she sings him a lullaby. It’s all of these things and none of them, and one night, incandescent with happiness, Pete throws the prescriptions away and flushes the pills down the sink. It feels right. It feels good. And Pete goes into work the next day with a spring in his step.

| |

“I’m pregnant,” Ashlee says, all at once. “I mean, I think I am, I haven’t been to the doctor’s, but I’m late and I feel like shit and the stupid stick turned blue, so the chances are pretty good. Um.” She twists her hands in the hem of her shirt. “So. Yeah.”

Pete’s been home for all of twenty seconds. He feels his pulse pounding in his ears, and everything gets staticky, for a minute. “Pregnant?” he stutters. “Like. Like a baby?”

Oh Christ, and he’s supposed to be a genius.

“No, a puppy,” Ashlee snaps, and he _hates_ the waver in her voice. “A new plaything for Hemmy.”

“I didn’t… we’re.” He puts one hand tentatively towards her stomach, then thinks better of it. “Really?” And he can’t keep the grin out of his voice, or off his face. “Marry me,” he blurts out, and Ashlee’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open, perfectly stunned, and Pete babbles on before her expression can change to something more like yes or no. “I’m not asking you because you’re pregnant. I mean, I _am_ , just not the way you think. Like, it would have been on our anniversary, and I would have tried to match my clothes, and taken you someplace nice and bought you a really fantastic ring, and maybe met your parents first, but I was going to _ask_ , and now I just –”

“Yes,” Ashlee says. “I’ve always – _yes_.”

| |

It’s true, what he told her. He probably wouldn’t have married her this quickly. Not that he wouldn’t ever have married her – he thinks she’s The Fucking One, Wendy to his Peter Pan – but Pete’s kind of slow and careful about stuff like that, finally, ever since the clusterfuck of the last and final breakup with Jeanae. (For the record, she’s at least half the reason he failed ethics that second time. Honest.) But Ashlee, she’s – they’re going to be a family, they’re going to have a _baby_ , and Pete has like, weirdly old-fashioned notions. He wants that solidarity, he wants the rings and the ceremony and the words.

They’re sitting on their bed in a pile of papers – bridesmaid dresses, caterers, a sundry billion and one things they need to decide before the wedding. They’re doing something quick and small within the next month or two, before Ashlee gets too huge – her words, not his. Even Pete knows better than to _ever_ comment on a woman’s weight – and Pete has already called his parents, listened to them cry and congratulate, and he can’t help asking Ashlee, “what about your family?”

They’ve talked about them before, a little. Her parents, the Texan pastor and his perfect Susie Homemaker wife; her sister, the blonde bombshell beauty queen. They didn’t like Ashlee going so far from home. They don’t like her clothes, her friends, her hair. As far as Pete knows, they don’t even talk anymore. But she’s getting _married_ , and even if Pete never really thought about it, he knows it’s a big deal for girls – even girls like Ashlee or Jeanae or Vicky-T, who pretend they don’t give a damn one way or another.

She shrugs. “Mom will be happy. I mean, she’s always happy for me, usually, dad just... he’s _dad_. Jess might come. She does her own thing, mostly, since she married Nick.”

“That’s good, right?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think he’s good for her, really. Like, she married him just to do it, to be all grown up. And… okay, Jess is not the brightest bulb in the box, I say that with love, but she’s blonde and she’s pretty and they give off this wholesome, all American-y vibe, you know? I think he likes the vibe more than her.” She shrugs again. “Maybe Jess will come, if she can get time off.”

Pete doesn’t ask again.

| |

One of the best parts of the whole thing is handing off wedding invitations to his stunned coworkers – Vicky-T’s going to be a bridesmaid, actually. Her and Ashlee get on like gangbangers – and asking Beckett for time off for his honeymoon.

“Why in God’s name would I give you two weeks off?” Beckett asks irritably without looking up from his computer.

Pete bounces on the tips of his toes. “Because I’m getting _married_.”

It’s the first time he’s ever seen Beckett completely gobsmacked, and it was _so completely_ worth waiting for.

“Married,” Beckett repeats faintly. “To _whom_?”

“So I’m going to pretend that you’re really interested, and that wasn’t mostly a ‘who the hell would marry _you_?’ type of question.” Beckett nods, mouth still slightly agape. “This girl I’ve been seeing. Ashlee.”

“I see.” Beckett appears to have at least partially recovered. “Well, that makes sense. Congratulations, then.”

Pete tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “I can have it off then?”

Beckett sighs a little under his breath, and taps a few keys. “When did you want them?”

| |

Pete thought getting married was the happiest moment of his life – standing with Ashlee in front of everyone, unable to keep the grin off of his face – the happiest, at least, until Bronx is born. Ashlee looks tired as hell, wispy bits of hair flying everywhere, and the baby is just a bundle in her arms – and Pete’s chest feels so full it could burst, so full he can’t breathe, like he never took a breath until he heard Bronx’s first reedy, squalling cry.

“He’s beautiful,” he says, pressing his forehead to Ashlee’s. “You’re beautiful, you’re _gorgeous_.”

She laughs weakly. “If you think you are ever getting my pants off again, mister, you are _sadly_ mistaken.”

“Not for at least six weeks,” he says dutifully, and she elbows him gently – not because she thinks he doesn’t deserve a bruise, but because she doesn’t want to jostle the baby.

“Hey baby,” he says, and runs one finger over Bronx’s face, trembling and quick. “Hey Bronx, baby Bronx, it’s daddy. Welcome to the world.”

| |

Pete doesn’t lie to himself about his job. What he does to the Dolls. What happens to them on Engagements. Sure, sometimes the client wants the perfect life coach, or the best thief, and there’s one sad old guy who engages Mikey to play his dead son on holidays, to have someone to eat turkey with and to put presents under the tree for and– whatever, its sad – but mostly it’s sex. Sometimes the client wants someone to debauch – Pete could compile a virgin Imprint in his sleep, yawn – sometimes they want someone they know will fuck them up just the way they like. And for all the time Pete spends thinking about shit, he is not a philosopher – if you get raped in a memory vacuum, is that better or worse or does it matter at all? If you’re getting paid, if you sign up for it - are you getting what you deserve, even if it’s something you never imagined? Sometimes the Dolls come back hurt, sometimes they come back really fucking _broken_ , and Pete knows he had a hand in that, okay? He _knows_. And Brent and Matty P. and Worm are at least partly on him, for the whole Robert fuck-up. Sometimes Pete manages to convince himself that it’s not his fault, that he couldn’t have known, that _no one_ knew, but he still sees Brent at the bottom of the stairs – Brent’s body, anyway. Brent’s head ended up in the pool – and he’s not sure who else was suppose to know.

But he doesn’t regret anything – truly regret anything – until the day he comes home to Bronx screaming in his highchair, a message on the machine that sounds like radio feedback, and Ashlee curled up in a corner uncertainly running her hands up and down her arms.

Pete touches Ashlee tentatively on the shoulder. “Babe? What happened? Are you – ?”

She looks up at him, brow furrowed and eyes utterly blank. “Did I fall asleep?”

| |

“As your neighbor, she was originally a short-term means of keeping tabs on you. We programmed her to be appealing, of course, but when you expressed an increased interest in her, we adjusted her parameter accordingly."  

Numbly, Pete remembers asking Ashlee out and getting turned down flat, only to have her show up the next night with _Sixteen Candles_ and Thai food. The first time he’d kissed her.

He wonders if he’ll be grateful for this, later. For no longer living a lie. But is it… is it a lie, if you don’t know the difference? If you don’t know any better? Is it – like Beckett touts – completely, totally, honestly, everything Pete thought it was?

"Bronx was a surprise. As you no doubt know, all female Actives are implanted with IUDs to prevent such situations. Hers, faulty as it was, was removed as soon as we realized." Beckett slides a folder across the desk. "Bronx will be entrusted entirely into your care, of course. This paperwork gives you total parental control, should any legal issues arise. Ashlee was briefly reprogrammed in order to return to your apartment to remove her things, while several of your neighbors watched. She has since returned to the Dollhouse from which she was borrowed."  

Beckett watches Pete’s reactions from under his lashes. Beckett’s not sorry for what he’s done, just that Pete had found out. That Ashlee was a waste of time, a waste of research. What happens to Actives when given long-term parameters? Can programs be retained indefinitely? Do pregnancy hormones affect the Actives in unforeseeable ways?

"Why did you…" Pete chokes, tries again. There are too many ways to end that sentence. "Why did you deactivate her?"  

"We didn’t," Beckett says sharply. "She was remotely deactivated." He sets a sheet of paper on top of the folder. "This ups your current security clearance, as well as your pay-grade. Sign it, and we can discuss this further."  

Pete wants to rip the paper to shreds. Punch Beckett in his perfect, pretty face. Burn the Dollhouse to the ground with everyone in it. But he’s impulsive, he knows, and what he feels needs time to stew before he doesn’t anything. And first – first he _wants_ to know.

And so he signs.

| |

Beckett tells Pete to take two weeks off. Two weeks to take care of Bronx and get his head back in the game. Pete spends the first few days stumbling around the apartment, zombie-like, dodging questions from his neighbors and taking care of a kid who keeps screaming for his mama.

“That’s the funny thing about dollhouses,” Pete coos at Bronx while bouncing him up and down, trying to calm him. “Nobody really lives there. Just dolls, you know, plastic bodies. And nobody ever grows old and nobody ever dies and nobody ever gets a happy ending.”

He finally realizes he has to call _his_ mother, to tell her Ashlee left him, just up and left. And she cries, which makes him cry a little, and she asks if he’s okay – she doesn’t ask if he’s still taking his meds, which he appreciates – and bemoans that Ashlee seemed so _happy_ , honestly, and does Pete need someone to watch Bronx? At which point Pete realizes, oh right, he needs someone to watch Bronx.

One of the nannies he interviews is perfect, really, in a funky-cool Mary Poppins kind of way, but Pete can't shake the feeling that Beckett would try to replace Ashlee with someone else. He picks an average, run-of-the-mill nanny -- a slightly portly woman with an indiscriminately Slavic accent and kind eyes who spends fifteen minutes after the interview talking about her newest grandkid. She’s nice, and she’s gonna take care of his kid, and that’s good enough for him, really.

He’d like to say it kills him – and in a lot of ways, it does. In a lot of ways, Pete is completely fucking dead, Pete might have completely fucking _killed himself_ if not for Bronx – but life goes on. Shit at the Dollhouse goes on. One of their Actives is almost killed in the field, which is a minor crisis, there’s the whole Conrad debacle, and then Bob runs off with Frank, which is a major crisis, and there’s one hair-raising occasion in which Cassadee almost wipes all of the on-file Imprints – not that Pete doesn’t have them backed up, but the amount of cataloguing that would have to be redone could potentially drive a man to completely justifiable homicide – and suddenly Bronx is turning two, Pete has enough money sitting in the bank to buy a small island, and he finds a grey hair around his temples when he looks in the mirror in the morning. Fuck that. If he’s going to lie to himself, it’ll be on his own terms.

| |

“There wouldn’t happen to be an employee discount on the Dolls,” Pete asks one day.

Beckett merely raises an eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain we pay you enough to afford them on your own,” he says dryly, but touches a finger to the computer screen and smothers a sigh. “What kind of engagement?” he asks, tone implying that he already knows – which, seriously, fuck him. “Any particular Active?”

“Patrick.”

Beckett’s pauses, and Pete can almost see him doing the math in his head. They both know a number of Patrick’s Engagements have been dropping off lately. He still Programs perfectly, of course. Can play hostage negotiator or life coach or NSA operative as well as any of the others, but next to the rest of the perfect Actives strolling around the Dollhouse, he’s becoming the chubby, forgotten one in the corner. Patrick started out as a pretty ginger boy with pouty lips and fantastic thighs. Now he’s beginning to bald prematurely, get thick. Pete is desperately aware of how much he doesn’t care. How much that doesn’t matter to him.

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Beckett acquiesces. “How long were you thinking?”

“Two days,” Pete says. “About a weekend’s worth. Nothing that’s going to set off any kind of risk.” Pete knows the risk calculation formulas backwards and forwards by now.

Beckett writes a figure on a slip of paper, slides it across the desk. Pete barely looks at it. Beckett’s been paying him more and more each year, and even though Pete spoils Bronx terribly it’s not like he’s spending his money on blow or blackjack. It just keeps piling up in his savings account. He can afford this.

“Friday night through Sunday morning?”

Beckett nods. “Done. Make sure Cassadee’s on shift.”

| |

Pete leaves most of the eventual programming up to Cassadee. It’s not much work, really, considering it’s a simple fix on Patrick’s original personality imprint – Pete’s not going to fix what he didn’t think was broke in the first place – and the parameter is pretty straightforward. He pays Katerine to take Bronx for the weekend, puts all the baby stuff lying around the house into Bronx’s room and locks the door. Takes a long shower. Pulls hoodie after hoodie out of the closet until he finds just the right cross between ‘I might be dressing in the dark’ and ‘or maybe this is just too cool for you to pull off.’ He puts eyeliner on for the first time in months. It’s nothing he couldn’t have done anyway, and Patrick’s already Programmed to like him, it’s just… it means more, somehow.

He heads to the music shop where he’s supposed to meet Patrick. It’s a bigger place, a city-wide chain with plenty of vinyl. Patrick and Joe are standing between Bowie and Cat Stevens and arguing about Neurosis.

"No, seriously, the riff in Locust Star? That's perfection, you can't tell me otherwise,” Patrick argues, gesturing wildly. Joe’s fro bobs in various directions, though whether he agrees or disagrees Pete can’t tell.

Pete stands behind them for a bit, idly flipping through one of the vinyl bins, mostly just watching. This is what Patrick should be doing. This is the person Patrick is. This is who he could be. Should be. And Pete took part of the away from him. He doesn't know it’s gone, but Pete does. Pete knows.

Then Patrick notices Pete, the way he's staring. He blushes, hard, and yanks the brim of his hat down over his face. "Problem, dude?"

"Well, yeah," Pete says, mouth kick-starting automatically. "You can't seriously think that Enemy of the Sun is their best album, come on. That's like saying your favorite David Bowie is his Thin White Duke stuff."

Patrick pulls a face. "What's wrong with the Duke? I mean, it’s not the best, but that doesn't mean..."

Pete moves closer, almost without realizing it. "Dude, don't even start. I can't believe we're even having this conversation."

Patrick’s eyes narrow. "Well, you're the one who just came over here and inserted yourself."

Pete just waves a hand and moves closer still. “Joe’s used to me butting in.”

“It’s true,” Joe says sagely. “And I have to go anyway.” Joe’s eyes are kind, which is almost more than Pete can stand, for a moment. "See you later, Patrick."

"Oh, okay. Catch up with you later, man." Patrick salutes as Joe leaves, a little two-fingered wave. He turns back to Pete a little uncertainly. "You know Joe?"

"From around," Pete says vaguely. "Music scene, you know. Did you ever see him when he was in his high school band? I think they were called something like... Lactose Intolerance."

"The Lactose Intolerant," Patrick corrects, grinning a little. "Yeah, they were --"

"Awful," Pete interrupts. "Seriously awful." And Patrick laughs with him, a little. "And, uh, I'm Pete. Pete Wentz, since Joe kind of cut and ran without introducing us."

Patrick puts his hand in Pete's and shakes briskly. "Patrick Stump. And before this conversation goes any further we're going to have to talk about this grudge you have against the Duke, seriously."

| |

"So," Pete says cheerfully. "The salesperson over there has been glaring at us for, like, forty-five minutes now? I think we need to leave, or face the wrath of the under-payed retail worker."

"Oh!" Patrick blushes -- shit, Patrick blushes about every ten seconds. Pete has to stop himself from reaching over and pinching his cheeks. "I guess I'll..."

"You like Ward's?" Pete interrupts. "The diner like a block over? My treat."

"Oh." Patrick blushes again, like it all hits him, what he's doing -- chatting up a guy for forty-five minutes and getting asked out to dinner. "Sure, I. Cool. Lemme just buy this?" he asks, and waves around a CD.

"I can wait." So fucking adorable. It's like Pete can't even breathe. Waiting on tenterhooks, just for Patrick to get back, and he can’t – he hasn’t felt like this in forever. He gets what Beckett means, now, about helping people, he does, and that's -- shit, that's _fucked_ , which he's totally going to examine later, he will, but now, right now Patrick's waiting for him near the register.

They walk over to the diner, where the conversation starts anew. Patrick talks about being a student, studying music theory and playing about sixteen instruments, and his whole face is alight with it, his hands flying -- until he realizes what he's doing, and then he yanks on the brim of his hat and shoves another fry into his mouth.

Pete's never seen him this alive. Never seen him this animated. The Patrick he knows is one at peace, but it’s not one worth anything, as people go. Pete's been obsessed with the cheap version. The surface version. It doubles the want, seeing Patrick like this. 'The way he's supposed to be,' the nagging voice in the back of his head reminds him, but he pushes it away. For now. He's got two days, and he's pretty sure he's going to _hell_ for them, so he should enjoy it, right?

Pete tells Patrick he's in grad school, studying neural chemistry -- "which is boring as fuck to most people, I'm not going to torture you. Unless you're interested in talking about brain proteins?" -- and that this diner makes the best cheese fries in the world, hands down. They're still as good as Pete remembers, and he fights Patrick nigh to the death for the last one before graciously offering it to him.

"As a token of my appreciation."

"You stabbed me with the fork to get it. Stabbed me _twice_ ," Patrick says wryly.

Pete sniffs. "That's how much my token of appreciation is worth, 'Trick. I _fought_ for it," and Patrick rolls his eyes, but he accepts the fry -- gluey with cheese, now, and Pete is flush with victory.

Later, the food is all gone, and they're just lingering -- coffee for Pete, tea with honey for Patrick -- when Pete leans in to kiss Patrick mid-sentence. He can't help it. And he still feels anxious about making his move -- butterflies all in his stomach -- even though he knows how this story ends. He _wrote_ it.

He kisses just the corner of Patrick’s mouth, almost too quick for it to count. Patrick stops in the middle of a word, makes a shocked little humming sound. Pete grins.

“Sorry, just. I’ve been trying to hold that back for a while now, and I couldn’t, anymore.”

Patrick's blush is more like a flush, this time, rising high on his cheeks and the back of his neck. "Uhm."

One of Patrick's hands is tapping nervously on the tabletop, and Pete grabs for it. Patrick's hand looks nice in his, and Pete runs chipped-paint fingernails over the back of Patrick's palm. "I could give you my number, right now, and we'll call it a night if you want. But I'd like -- I would _really_ like -- for you to come home with me?" Pete's voice raises on the last few words, almost like a question instead of just nervousness.

He's so nervous he almost misses when Patrick says yes.

| |

Patrick spread out over Pete's bed is just as pornographic as he imagined, just as perfect. Clothes mostly off, but hat still on, anxious under Pete's gaze but not looking away, and Pete breathes out, "God, look at you," so perfectly, honestly admiring that Patrick doesn't blush this time. Just kisses Pete again, open mouthed- sloppy. Perfect.

"You're _mouth_ ," he says, delighted, and Patrick bites the edge of Pete's jaw.

"Yeah?" he hums, and catches ahold of one of Pete's hands. Sucks two fingers into his mouth, hot and wet, and Pete's brain fizzles out. "Lie back."

Pete scrambles to comply so quickly he almost falls off of the bed.

Patrick laughs at him. Not mean, just a little power-hungry, a little amazed, and the slide of his hands over Pete's hips would more than make up for it, anyway.

"You have," Patrick murmurs, his tongue running down the vee between Pete's torso and his thigh, "the _strangest_ tattoos."

Pete is biting the knuckle of one hand, mouth raw, and the other hand frantically pets Patrick’s head, trying not to clench in his hair or knock off his hat. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah. I like them,” Patrick says, and sucks the head of Pete’s cock into his mouth – Pete jerks up against the inside of Patrick’s cheek, sliding over his tongue and towards the back of his throat. Patrick moans around him, soft, and tightens his hands on Pete’s hips.

“Jesus,” Pete says, and makes the mistake of looking down and seeing Patrick bent over him, lips stretched around his cock. “Jesus, you’re just – _Patrick_ ,” he manages to force out, before he finally falls apart.

| |

When he comes to, he’s holding Patrick to him so tightly it’s a miracle either of them can breathe.

“You good?” he manages, and Patrick hums into Pete’s neck.

"Yeah," he says, and Pete feels the vibration all the way down his spine. “Make it up to me later.”

"Fifteen minutes until round two," Pete says, hoarse. "Maybe." And rolls on top of Patrick.

| |

After round two, Pete props himself up on a pillow and watches Patrick's eyes flutter shut.

"Not up for round three," Patrick murmurs.

Pete smiles. “Me either. I just don't sleep much," he whispers, and smoothes down a wisp of Patrick's hair. "But I'll be here, okay?"

Patrick mumbles back sleepily, and Pete spends the next few hours memorizing every inch of Patrick's face, the way he breathes, the way he smells, the way he hums in his sleep.

| |

The next morning is more of an afternoon, and Pete wakes Patrick up with coffee, and then grilled cheese in the kitchen. He can see Patrick hedging, like he's trying to think of a way to leave, saying “thank you” over his grilled cheese. So Pete comes up behind him, arms around his waist, nuzzling his neck. For nearly a whole minute, until Patrick laughs, disbelieving, "are you for real?"

Pete laughs so hard it hurts.

"Stay for awhile," he says, when he gets his breath back. "The night, again. Let's make a weekend of it, yeah? It feels...”

"Perfect," Patrick fills in, and Pete squeezes his eyes closed.

"Yeah. I don't want to lose it. Not yet."

Patrick looks at him for so long Pete worries he's overstepped the Protocol. "Yeah," Patrick says softly. "I get that. Okay, I... I don't have class until Monday."

"What a coincidence. That is the day I'm expected to return to work."

“ _Mondays_ ,” Patrick murmurs.

“We should get rid of them," Pete agrees, and skips his fourth cup of coffee in favor of Patrick.

| |

They spend most of the day watching The O.C., and then a block of shitty VH1 reruns -- Rock of Love, the whole season, in all of its insanity, into the wee hours of the morning. Patrick spends most of his time saying "this is ridiculous” and shaking his head, while Pete gropes him now and again with an innocent smile, so that by the time the season finale is on, they've moved from distracted make-outs to rubbing off on each other on the couch.

Pete slings one arm around Patrick’s waist, inserts one leg in between Patrick’s – it is a tiny couch, luckily – and tugs Patrick’s hat more securely onto his head.

Patrick laughs. “Thanks. Freak.”

“Oh please,” Pete scoffs. “You almost fell asleep with that thing on last night.”

“Mm,” Patrick hums. “As I am now falling asleep on your couch.”

“Lame,” Pete says, and Patrick hums again in agreement. “Our Sunday is almost _over_ , Pattycakes, you can’t sleep through it.”

“I _guess_. You wanna go do something?”

Pete doesn’t want to leave the apartment, the reassuring cocoon of blankets and hoodies and coffee and grilled cheese to a place without Patrick.

“No,” he says, decisively, and flops back down onto Patrick. “Joe’s gonna be here soon anyway.”

“Oh, yeah? Cool,” Patrick says, kind of spaced out. “I like Joe. I like his _hair_.”

“It’s pretty awesome,” Pete agrees. He buries his face in Patrick’s neck. “You’re gonna call me, right? When you leave?”

Patrick laughs like he can’t believe Pete is even asking that question, and curls his hand up under Pete’s shirt, over his shitty raised tattoo. “I’m kind of booked until, like, Thursday. School and work and stuff. But I’ll call, okay? Promise,” he says, and kisses Pete’s temple.

“Sure,” Pete says, and tries to smile when he hears the knock on his door. “Right after your treatment.”


	3. they'll do their best to change you

Bert meets Quinn at the dog park. Bert’s been hanging out there. It’s peaceful, mostly, and he likes dogs. People leave him alone. Most of them pretend he’s not even there, the way they do most homeless people. Not that Bert is _homeless_ , technically, but hobo-like, sure, after the Dollhouse.

What comes right before he broke out is hazy. Uncertain. He remembered enough to know he didn’t want to be there, not ever, but he was confused. If he’d been totally in control, he couldn’t have hurt Brent – he wouldn’t have, he knows that. Not if he’d totally been in control. But he wasn’t, so… so there are at least three bodies he’s responsible for. Three he can definitely remember.

(Worm he remembers better than the others. He took his time with Worm. Worm _knew_ things, knew more than the others, and the only need Bert could keep a handle on, the only one that stuck with him was the need to _know_. Worm wasn’t Beckett, or Hurley, sure, but Bert was working within some time constraints.)

What comes after he broke out is hazy too. He ran on a survival instinct – he just doesn’t know whose. He stole a car, hopped a train. Startled at every noise, at every light. The sky seems – he knows he’s seen the sky before, of course he fucking has, but _jesus_. Was everything always so bright? He shades his eyes and ignores the tremor in his hand, that he’s twitching like he’s coming off a bad high – which is possible, he has no idea if Wentz or Toro were doping him. That would explain at least part of what he’s feeling right now.

Anyway. Sitting at the dog park. Sifting through what he remembers, trying to find memories he _knows_ are his – not many, not fucking many at all – and this fluffy little dog runs right over to him. Animals like him. Bert doesn’t really get it because no one else does, but he likes the animals right back. Maybe they sense that.

“Nice shirt,” the guy following her says, jerking his head towards the Dead Kennedys tee Bert found in a box of college throwaways. “Great fucking band, right?

“Right. Thanks.” _Saw them, once_ , he wants to say, but he’s pretty sure that wasn’t actually him. Bert keeps petting the dog, and studiously avoids the guy’s gaze. “Hey girl,” he coos.

“I’m Quinn. And that’s Zelda.”

“Bert,” he says. Bert, like – short for Robert. He was Robbie before this, to his family and his friends. It’s not smart to use the same name, but fuck it, the Dollhouse took enough from him. He’ll keep his own fucking name.

Quinn and Bert chat for a while, some small talk and some music stuff. Bert stutters a lot, because he has to auto-correct before he says shit like he saw the Dead Kennedys play, or he has competing opinions he has to struggle through. Not a trainwreck, just a little odd, and it seems like it might be the kind of thing that got better with practice.

Quinn comes back each day, day after day, and they shoot the shit for a while, talk about whatever. Quinn usually brings food – too much, he says, I ordered too much again, which Bert takes as his polite non-offensive way of getting Bert to eat without implying that Bert needs to eat.

Finally, one night, as it’s getting darker, Quinn says, “Look, maybe this is a weird question, but do you have a place to stay?”

Bert scratches his head. “Not really.” He’s been breaking into places, staying in hostels. Staying as nameless and faceless as he can. The fucking irony.

Quinn looks at him for a minute. Scratches behind Zelda’s ears. “We’ve got an extra room.”

“We.”

“My roommate. Jepha.”

“He won’t care?” Bert’s sense of manners is kind of twisted. He’ll lick the face of anyone who crosses his path, but God forbid he stay over unannounced. He blames his programming. He knows how to kill someone with his bare hands, but the intricacies of small talk confuse him. Fuck, they should confuse anyone. Why are there rules for talking about the weather?

“We’ve let people crash there before,” Quinn hedges. “You got any stuff?”

Bert tossed the gun in the lake when he got here, so – “Nope.”

“Come on, then.”

Quinn and Jepha live in a small two-story, kind of dodgy, kind of run-down, but nicer than any place Bert’s been staying. Bert meets Jepha – Quinn tells Jepha Bert’s crashing in the extra bedroom, and Jepha lifts the bong in greeting – shows Bert the extra bedroom, gives him some blankets, and says “I’ll be next door if you need me.” Bert sleeps for a few hours, then wakes up after having a dream about biting down on a pen that was filled with blood. His throat feels raw. He might have been screaming, he doesn’t know. He leaves well before anyone else is up.

| |

Bert still hangs out at the park, panhandles during the day, sleeps at hostels and abandoned housing at night. Quinn comes by nearly every day, invites him to spend the night with greater and greater frequency. Even Bert can take a hint after a while.

And he – he _likes_ Quinn. He likes Jepha. They play music in the basement, they smoke up, they hang with their dogs and watch zombie movies. They make Bert comfortable. When Bert wakes them up, screaming, Quinn or Jepha come in to wake him, even though Bert kicked Jepha right in the face once. And sometimes its stupid dream stuff, like when Bert dreams about Jepha offering him a lamb’s head on a platter, or drowning in the couch, or that Beckett turned into a pair of scissors and cut out his brain. But sometimes it’s memories, maybe-memories, like arguing with his parents about being gay and trying not to cry, or convincing his girlfriend not to get an abortion, or giving blowjobs for smack – which really fucking freak Bert out, because maybe those are really _his_ , and would it be worse or better if they weren’t? – and somehow Quinn always knows when its one of those because he shakes Bert awake hard enough to leave bruises and tells him to “move over, cocksucker, and stop hogging the blankets,” and when they roll out of bed in the morning Jepha’s already making hash browns and sausage and nobody cares if Bert pours beer over his Lucky Charms.

Why leave the Dollhouse if he wasn’t going to live his own fucking life, right? Bert might not know exactly who he is, but he can figure it out. He can even have some fun doing it.

(In the back of his brain, there are Imprints at work. Brewing. Thinking and plotting about the Dollhouse in ways that Bert can mostly ignore. At least, for now.)

One of his Imprints was a hacker. It takes him a minute to figure out how to access it again – and he has to speak with a Brooklyn accent and gets an almost unbearable craving for Red Bull and Skittles, but what the hell, right? – and with a few hours internet time he’s got a shiny new social security number for Bert McCracken, background checks on Quinn and Jepha, who both have nice, solid, non-Dollhouse-related histories, and just under half a million in a brand new bank account in the Caymans. There are probably alarms going off somewhere, but it’s doubtful it’ll ever make its way back to Beckett, or Bert.

So Bert becomes the odd third roommate, creeping in and out at all hours of the night. Sometimes he eats everything in the house, sometimes he leaves boxes of vegan muffins for Jepha on the kitchen table. Every first Tuesday he leaves an envelope of cash under the kettle on the sideboard. Jepha has yet to accidentally set it on fire, which Bert counts as a win.

After two months, Quinn comes over to where Bert is attempted to reheat pancakes using the toaster and bumps hips with him.

“Bert, the money,” he says, and then stops. “Like, if you don’t have it – I mean, if you’re getting it by like, by –” Quinn’s stuttering and turning purple.

“ _Quinn Allman_ ,” Bert screeches, mock-scandalized. “Are you asking if I’m selling my hot bod for money?”

Quinn blushes harder than Bert thought was possible. “That’s not—”

“What the fuck are you two doing down there?” Jepha yells from upstairs.

“Quinn thinks I’m a whore! And we’re gonna negotiate prices!” Bert yells back. “You can save money on a threesome!”

Jepha bangs on the wall with his fist. “I didn’t know your mom was here!”

Bert giggles, and Quinn lets his head smack on the countertop.

“Your pancakes are burning,” Quinn says, muffled, and Bert yelps and tries to pry them out with a knife.

“Twatwaffle,” he swears, and blows air across his burnt fingers.

“Twatpancake,” Quinn corrects, and Bert giggles again. “Are there anymore left?”

“Pan on the back burner,” Bert throws over his shoulder, and starts digging around in the fridge. “Now where’s the fucking syrup, and none of that boysenberry shit either.”

He’s got guns taped under the bed, under the table, and behind the fridge. The guys don’t clean, so they’ll never bother to look and see. When they press about where he’s from, or at least ask kind of pointedly, Bert tells them he’s ex-Mormon. It’s not really a lie. As far as he remembers, he’s ex- a lot of things. Ex-Mormon just seems the best way to explain all his weird memory gaps. Never heard of Britney Spears? That’s because secular music was the devil. No family? No friends? Because you left the church, and they really weren’t down with that.

“But!” he says brightly, and licks Quinn’s cheek. “I do know forty-one ways to kill a man with my bare hands,” and the carefully concealed pity on Quinn’s face melts away.

“Stop licking me.”

“That’s what she said,” Bert coos, and Quinn kicks him so hard he falls off the chair.

| |

Quinn and Jepha have a practice space in the basement for their band, Ends With You. Their drummer is a guy named Dan, who is their unofficial fourth roommate – he sometimes sleeps over with Jepha. Bert still has no clue what _that’s_ completely about, outside the obvious – and a guy named James for their singer, who seems to show up less often than everyone else. It drives Jepha a little crazy, because even though Jepha looks like he’d fuck your shit up he’s really the kind of guy who walks old ladies across the street and offers to carry their groceries and likes to take care of people and shows up on time. He was a _boy scout_ – Quinn has a picture Jepha’s mom gave him, as proof.

They’re good, though, when they get into it. Bert likes to hang in the basement with them, just watching. On good days, Dan gives him a piggyback ride upstairs, or Quinn winks at him over the piles of amps.

| |

Special Agent Gerard Way is easy to find, Bert thinks glumly. Entirely too fucking easy. Even though the Bureau’s official policy is that the Dollhouse is a myth, there’s been a taskforce at least as far back as the 80s. All dead-end agents like Way. It seems nearly impossible that Beckett doesn’t have someone on him in some way or another.

Bert spends weeks checking out everyone in Way’s life – girlfriends, boyfriends, friends, the maid, the guy who delivers his pizza, everything. Nothing comes up Dollhouse, and sure, there are other Dollhouses, but Beckett likes to keep things in the family. Their fucked-up, drugged-up, plastic family. Bert decides to make his move.

There’s a club Way goes to sometimes. His job keeps him pretty on point, it seems like, but when he wants to unwind it’s always at the same place. A mainly punk club, a little hole in the wall with a queer bent to it. Someplace he can shed the FBI man suit and relax. Wear a little makeup, dance with the crowd. Maybe take home a pretty boy, or girl. Bert can be pretty, when he wants. He used to _make_ people want him. Once he sets his sights on Way, it isn’t that hard.

Gerard is shy, at least until he gets a few drinks into him. Bert waits until Gerard’s three down before sauntering over. He tucks one hand into Gerard’s back pocket and smiles. Gerard’s eyes widen and his hands flutter nervously, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

Bert solves that problem _real_ quick.

“Is it,” Gerard says sometime later, detaching his mouth from Bert’s. “Do you want to, to come back to my place?”

Bert grins like the Cheshire Cat.

| |

Right inside Gerard’s door, there’s a picture of Mikey on the side table. Of all the things Bert expected, of all the _reasons_ Gerard could have – everything snaps into place, like the tumblers in a lock. This is someone Bert can trust – to a point, naturally, but at the very least Gerard is someone who won’t be bought off, or deterred. Who won’t forget. Not on his own, anyway.

“Cute guy,” Bert says, tracing the edge of Mikey’s glasses. “Boyfriend?”

Gerard stills behind him, for a moment. “Brother.”

“Weird glasses,” he declares – the Mikey he knew didn’t have any – and then moves right on to sucking Gerard’s cock.

| |

Gerard, as it turns out, is particularly chatty when he’s getting his dick sucked. This bodes well on one level, because Bert shows up now and again, does his thing, gets information. On the other hand, Beckett could be keeping tabs just as easily.

And the thing is, Bert likes Gerard. Like rubbing his dick all over Gerard’s face, likes the way Gerard fucks him, likes the dress in the back of Gerard’s closet, which both he and Gerard have had on – Gerard gets all done up, shaving and makeup and _looks_ like a girl, while Bert just looks like a guy in a dress. Each kind of hot in their own way, and the heels do _amazing_ things for Bert’s ass – likes the ink smudges that transfer from Gerard’s hands to Bert’s hips. Likes his collection of comic books, and horror movies, and the way he talks about feminism and sexism and heteronormativity and a bunch of shit that Bert is probably not the best judge of because he has women and men of all different races and genders and sexualities wreaking havoc with his synapses, but he likes that Gerard cares. That he thinks he’s going to save the world but really just wants to save Mikey.

The look on Quinn and Jepha’s faces whenever he shows up for breakfast with a line of hickeys around his neck and eyeliner smeared everywhere is just a bonus.

| |

Later that week they’re at some house party. Kind of lame, and Ends With You were only the opener, but still. Bert gets to watch his friends rock out, and then there’s free beer. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Bert’s got a nice buzz going. Jepha is off being all network-y, sucking up to the host for a minute, though that fact that she’s really fucking hot probably doesn’t hurt. And Dan always manages to disappear right after performing, only to show up naked in the rosebushes later, or somewhere – there’s a whole wall of snapshots in the kitchen of various interesting places Dan is always showing up naked – and Quinn’s currently sucking face with some guy called Todd – Todd, seriously, what the _fuck_ – and Bert’s got the attention span of a gopher most days, so he wanders down to the basement. They’ll either be people smoking up, or fucking, or both.

He’s kind of disappointed to find that none of those things are happening. It’s kind of damp, really dusty. Nothing but a beat-up box piano in the corner. But it’s almost in tune, Bert notes, running his fingers across the keys. Then… it’s like an itch, almost, when this happens. When there’s something he knows how to do, or say. Sitting on just the edge of his brain. Or his fingers, in this case.

There’s no one around. And the chances of a piano-playing ninja killer seem kind of slim, so. Bert lets go.

The first piece is Debussy. Then Schumann, Brahms, Liszt, Badarzewska-Baranowska, and then – because he can – Chopsticks. He plays and plays and plays, until his fingers move beyond aching and into stiffening from overuse. He stops and cracks them all once, then twice.

“I didn’t know you played,” Jepha says, from behind him.

 _I didn’t know either_ is probably not the best response. “I’m rusty,” he says. He tries to pull it all together in his mind – keys, notes, chords. “I, uh, took lessons when I was kid.”

“Huh.”

“I didn’t hatch from a vat.” He’s pretty sure.

“I know,” Jepha says. “Anyway. There’s a bong out back, figured I’d come find you.”

Bert pushes off of the piano bench and bounces up the stairs. “You’re a god among men, Jepharee.”

| |

The piano thing makes Bert want to experiment, a little. Music skills seem easy enough to access – probably background skills, back-story filler that Wentz shoveled in – so he doesn’t feel bad about heading to music shops and checking things out. It seems fairly unlikely he’ll turn into a banjo-playing assassin, for example. It turn out he plays classical piano, jazz trumpet, a bit of guitar. Also, the triangle. He is a _champion_ triangle player.

It’s always a trick, accessing a skill. Sometimes they’re tied in with memories – sometimes a whole fucking flood of memories, and there’s nothing more embarrassing that having someone find you curled up on the floor in the fetal position while you’re having a bad trip, okay? He tries to avoid pulling at things in his head that don’t seem to want to come loose. Not that he can help it, sometimes. Sometimes he feels like he’ll never stop compositing all the shit the Dollhouse shoved in his head. Just when he thinks there can’t be _more_ some new flood of memories worms it’s way out from some wrinkly little crevice of his brain. He doesn’t sleep much, though the weed helps. Alcohol too. The Dollhouse fucked with his brain chemistry, maybe, he doesn’t know. Sometimes he starts twitching again, little tics. His nose started bleeding once, but there was no way in hell he was going to the hospital, so. When that happens he just does his best to stay away from Quinn and hole up in his room.

| |

Jepha drags them all out to a show later. He’s fighting with Dan, or something – Dan hasn’t been around and Jepha’s been tense, so that’s the best and simplest explanation Bert has – and Jepha’s got pretty good taste. Bert spends most of the show clinging to Jepha’s back and singing in his ear.

“You were pretty good,” Jepha says after. “From what I could hear.”

“Aw, Jepharee, you know I’m easier than that,” Bert preens, and grabs for the front of Jepha’s jeans. Jepha bats him off and promises him beer – which, sure, it’s like a half hour until the next band is done set-up, and Bert is already known for his short-attention span. He and Quinn are knocking them back, having a good time, when some asshole decides to start some shit with Jepha, sitting at the bar and taking up space.

Bert goes a little haywire. He means to just throw a punch, after the other guy does, but that triggers some kind of… muscle memory, he doesn’t know. He glitches. He beats the shit out of the guy, even though he’s at least a foot taller than Bert is, a hundred pounds heavier. Bert doesn’t come back to himself until he’s got the guy in a headlock, going limp. Jepha is slamming him on the back of the neck, Quinn looks scared, and there’s a whole mob of people trying to drag the other guy away from Bert. Like Bert was fucking Zelda with her fucking chew toy.

Bert lets go and walks out the door. Everyone gives him a wide berth.

Jepha and Quinn burst out a few minutes afterwards.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Jepha says. “Bert.”

“You protect your friends,” he says flatly. Quinn and Jepha exchange a look over his head he pretends not to see. “I didn’t mean to go that far. I just. I fucking hate assholes like that.”

There’s a minute where no one says anything, and Bert curls up tighter.

Quinn sighs. “Won’t be going back there again.”

Jepha throws his arm around Bert’s waist. “Beer is cheaper at Hoppus’ anyway.”

| |

The first time Bert tries to sing on his own, he really can’t. And that’s okay, somehow. That’s fucking better than okay, because then it’s something he knows is his, something he learnt for himself. Most of the time his life’s a bad kind of déjà vu – everything’s new, nothing’s new, all at the same time.

Not that Bert hasn’t been working on Dollhouse stuff too. He’s got a ton of encrypted files on Jepha’s computer, who probably thinks it’s freaky animal porn – which totally _is_ on the computer, but that’s all Dan’s. Bert’s is mostly lists. Clients, jobs Bert remembers, other things he gleans from the news, various things he’s hacked into, what might be other clients. Even the Dollhouse’s head corporation. Well, maybe. If Bert knew anything for sure, he’d do something. Something big.

As it is, he only manages to make a nuisance of himself now and again. Deactivating Ashlee isn’t too hard, once he figures out she’s a set-up. Her history doesn’t go back far enough; it shows up in patches here and there, planted. He wonders if Pete’s in on the joke.

Bert took some info when he split, and he thinks it’s enough for a deactivation. And there’s really only one way to find out. He readies the file and picks up the phone.

| |

James is late for practice. Again. Quinn’s pretty chill about it and Dan could care less, but Jepha starts to freak out.

“Fucking James. Late for fucking practice because he doesn’t fucking _care_ , motherfucker, what the _fucking fuck_!”

Bert’s experience with the word ‘fuck’ is pretty extensive, but Jepha’s giving him a run for his money.

When Jepha finally starts to run out of steam a little, Dan pokes him in the back with a drumstick.

“We can still practice,” he says mildly, tap-tap-tapping mildly along the edge of one cymbal.

Jepha bites down on his lips until Bert’s afraid it’s gonna bleed. “Yeah, well, we’re fucking solid,” he mutters. “It’s _James_ who doesn’t remember to reference shit.” He yanks on one of the plugs in his ear. “Bert. You wanna sing? I mean, you have to know the fucking words by now, right?”

Quinn and Dan both give Jepha a weird look. Bert guzzles the last of his coke, tosses the can on the floor, and burps. “Sure.”

It takes a few songs for Bert to get into it, through _Taste of Ink_ and _Pieces Mended_ , but when it clicks, it _clicks_. Like every time he’s managed to access an Imprint, only more of a rush because he _knows_ this is him, this is his skill, his talent, _him_. Something he made for himself.

At the end of _Box Full of Sharp Objects_ , the last note hangs in the air for a moment. No one says anything.

Then Jepha explodes with laughter, grinning. “Jesus. Jesus, Bert, you beautiful fuck,” he says, and comes over to give Bert a loud smack on the cheek.

And Bert is suddenly, inexplicably shy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quinn chimes in. “ _Fuck_ yeah.” And runs over to tackle them both onto the floor. Jepha grins. Behind the drum, Dan is hiding a grin behind his cap. They’re all grinning like idiots, the bunch of them.

“I’ll tell James to fuck off then, yeah?” Dan says. James was his friend, sort of. More than the others.

“What the fuck, it’s not like he’s even here anyway,” Jepha says, and Bert bites Quinn’s neck in sheer joy.

| |

Ends With You has a gig the next week. Jepha calls them in The Used this time, says they need a new band name to symbolize their new start, and Bert can get behind that, even if Jepha is being all new-age hippie about it.

He’s nervous, before the show. He’s got about ten kinds of unflappable he could access, but at least some of those go along with ‘stone cold killer,’ and who knows what the side effects might be. He should practice with those in the basement before busting them out in public. Quinn brings him two beers and Bert gives Quinn a loud, wet kiss in thanks. Dan throws a drum stick at them, and then they’re on.

It’s good. Not great, he didn’t expect it to be great, but the _feeling_ likes that.

“He could be, you know,” Jepha says one afternoon.

“Be what?”

“Your boyfriend. If you just asked.”

Bert goes back to picking bits of lint off the carpet.

Jepha sighs. “Okay.”

Jepha shouldn’t talk – like he and Dan have their shit figured out. They are into some _freaky shit_ , okay, and Bert says that as a nonjudgmental person into some fairly freaky shit himself.

Not that he’s going to tell Jepha that.

| |

One day he sees Frank and some guy on the news. Burglers. Right. Dolls don’t end up on the news, certainly not for something as petty as burglary. Frank ran away, someone took him, or they’re hoping to draw Bert in using Frank as bait. Whichever it is, it’s in Bert’s best interest to find them.

Bert finds out the other guy’s an ex-cop right off, which makes the bait-angle slightly less likely. They’re good though. _Really_ good. It takes him a long time to find them. They’re mostly off the grid, about as off the grid as you can get without living in a shack in the woods somewhere. When Bert _does_ find them, he – well, he mostly checks out for that. There are better people in his head for that job than Bert.

He spends two days away from home, sneaks in late at night, and when he comes down for breakfast Quinn and Jepha are waiting for him. And not in the good way.

“You missed a gig,” Quinn says, cold. Bert doesn’t like that. Not from Quinn, of all people. Dan gets quiet sometimes, and Jepha can be a pissy little bitch, but not _Quinn_.

Bert opens his mouth but the first thing that pops in his head is the bloodstained shirt he stashed upstairs. The knives. And he’s got nothing to say.

“Are you using again?” Quinn demands. Right. Right, Quinn thought he used to tweak. “If you are, just – its okay, you fuckhead, just let us know. Don’t run the fuck off like that.”

Jepha come over and grabs onto his wrists, exposing his hands to the light. Where the glass had cut them all up. “What the fuck happened,” he asks flatly. Calmer than Quinn, but more angry under it. Mostly the kind of anger that comes from concern.

That’s where they’re both coming from, with this. They’re being concerned, caring friends. Family. Bert put them all at risk just by being here, in even more trouble by coming back here now. From Beckett, from Frank, from fucking _Bob_. He knows all too well the things that could happen to them.

“I had to go,” he says, a little surprised at how quiet and small his voice comes out at first. “I mean. I have to go. To leave. I… I fucking – there are people looking for me,” he bursts out. “People with a lot of power, and resources. People who don’t stop looking, ever. And I didn’t – I didn’t do anything _wrong_.” His voice cracks, suddenly, and he hopes he isn’t lying. He doesn’t remember much of who he was before Dollhouse. Maybe he ate babies. On spikes. And he remembers what he _did_ do in the Dollhouse, and it wasn’t all playing some fucked up version of Pretty Woman. He did shit. Fucked up shit. Jesus, _Worm_. Even what he just did to Frank, it’s not – “I’ll leave, you can – Hayley knows all the songs, she’s between bands, you could –”

Quinn lunges at him and hugs him until his ribs crack.

“Bert. Jesus, _Bert_ , you don’t have to go anywhere.”

Jepha’s hand is rough and heavy on the back of his neck. “Ever,” Jepha rumbles, squeezing lightly. “You dumbass.”

“Just let us help you,” Quinn says, and Bert has to squeeze his eyes shut and will everyone away. Everything in his head is buzzing. He wants to be just him. Just himself, for this moment. Just this once.

“Thanks,” he mumbles into Quinn’s shoulder. “Just… thanks.”

| |

He goes looking for Gerard at his favorite club. One of the times being tiny is good – Bert forces his way through the crowd, puts one hand in Gerard’s back pocket.

“Hey Gee.” He loops two fingers through Gerard’s belt buckle. “Got a minute.”

“Uhm, Bert. Hey. I’m – I’m sort of – I’m here with someone else,” Gerard says, and gestures to the bar –

– where Lyn-Z is harassing the bartender. Fuck. Motherfucking cunt, he needs to be gone _yesterday_. Lyn-Z’s probably not be looking for him specifically, but knowing Beckett and Wentz she’s more than likely got some secondary programming that could cause trouble.

He drags Gerard off of the dance floor and behind one of the pillars. Not great, but better. Again, thank God he’s so fucking short.

“Gerard, listen,” he says. “She’s not who you fucking think, okay?”

Gerard’s face softens. The stupid, sentimental fuck. “Bert, I know this is a surprise, but…”

“Dollhouse,” he hisses. “Dollhouse, she’s from the Dollhouse. Doll-fucking-house. I was too, but I broke out – there’s no fucking time to explain, okay, just. Don’t get her near you, _don’t_. Or you’ll never get Mikey back.”

Disbelief, fear, anger, disdain, _hope_. “He’s…”

“When I was there, yeah.” Bert pushes closer, until he and Gerard are one black and red mass against the column. “Look, if Lyn-Z’s here, she’s keeping tabs. Don’t trust her. Don’t trust anyone you haven’t known for years and years. Don’t trust anyone who ever disappeared for any amount of time. Don’t – don’t trust _anyone_.”

Another war of emotion across Gerard’s face. “Not even you?”

Bert snorts. “ _I_ don’t even trust me. Listen, the shithead who runs it. His name is Beckett. Tall, skinny, brown hair and eyes. Pretty. Usually followed by two guys, Siska and Hurley. No idea if that’ll help. You see me again, try to get the fuck away. Don’t try to find me.”

Gerard grabs at his arm, starts to say something else, but Bert shrugs him off and disappears into the club before heading out the back.

If Lyn-Z’s on Gerard, Beckett’s that much closer to Bert. And if Bert could find Frank and Bob, Beckett can too. Bert has information from when he left the Dollhouse for the first time. Ripped some of it out of Worm, stole some of it from Beckett’s office. Not enough, but maybe enough for Gerard to do _something_.

Bert breaks into Gerard’s apartment – which is pathetically easy, Jesus, Gerard – and drops the files on the bed-stand with a deliberate _whoosh_. Gerard startles awake, one hand already reaching for his gun.

“You’ve got twenty-four hours,” Bert says. “Then I’m going to do something you probably won’t like.” He scrambles out the window and down the fire escape before Gerard has a chance to say anything. It’s past time to listen.

He takes his time driving home. Thinking. He’s already made his decision, so he doesn’t know why he bothers, but everything in his head is clamoring. He sleeps late and dreams Beckett buried him alive in a coffin. Zelda is scratching at the door when he goes downstairs. He takes her the dog park, just for old time’s sake, and spends the whole day there, watching Zelda run around, then snuggling with her under a tree.

Back at the house he goes around and gets all the guns, the knives, everything he needs. He’s contemplating leaving a note – and if he leaves a note, how truthful is he going to be? – when Quinn finds him.

“What are you…” Quinn asks, and trails off.

“Running off again,” Bert says, shrugging. “I was gonna come say goodbye, I think. I wasn’t sure if that would be better.”

Quinn stills. “You’re not coming back,” he says flatly, and his hands curls into fists at his sides.

“I want to, but that’s – ” Statistically unlikely, for one thing. Better case scenario, there will be other Dolls with him, and he can’t bring them back here. “If I don’t come back,” he continues. “You don’t need to run, okay? If they have me they’ll be happy, and they won’t know where I’ve been. I won’t ever tell them.” And by ‘tell them’ Bert means he won’t give them the chance to rip it out of his head. Quinn will not, however, find suicide reassuring. Bert pauses. “There’s vegan bacon in the crisper. And a bank account number.” There’s still a decent five hundred thousand plus in the account. Waste not want not, as Jepha would say. What an old woman.

Quinn stares at him. “You are _so stupid_ ,” he whispers, furious, and lunges at Bert.

Bert flinches, a little. Quinn’s due a free hit or two, with all the shit Bert’s put him through, and –

And the touch of Quinn’s lips to his is not new. Not even really unexpected, if Bert was thinking things through. Just… surprising, still. Quinn’s breath is sleep-sour, and Bert wants to lick it right out of his mouth – tries to, tries to wiggle his way into Quinn’s skin.

“Do you have to go?” Quinn asks, breathless. “Right now?”

Bert opens his mouth. Shuts it and thinks. “I could wait an hour.”

| |

They scramble up the stairs into Bert’s bedroom, probably so loud they wake up Jepha, maybe Dan. They’re almost to the bed when Quinn tackles Bert, hard enough to get rug burn on his knees.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bert swears, partly because of the bruises and partly because Quinn’s already got his pants half down. “Fuck, Quinn.”

“Love you,” Quinn says, and yanks Bert’s shirt over his head. “Love you, you stupid motherfucker, with your fucking _death wish_ ,” he swears, and this looks like it might be turning into a Jepha-worthy rant, so Bert decides to nip that in the bud and get down to sucking Quinn’s cock.

Bert loves sucking cock. Seriously. He loves the weight and he loves the taste and he loves the attention whore aspect of it all, of making someone fall to pieces and sucking their brains right out through their dick. He doesn’t know if he could deepthroat before the Dollhouse but he can sure as hell do it now, and he puts that skill to good use. (As an aside, Bert fucking _knew_ keeping his hair long like this was a good idea, with Quinn’s hands tangled and yanking, fucking his mouth, swearing and praying.)

He thinks about letting Quinn come on his face. Pulling off at the last minute and jacking him off until he stops twitching, until he can’t handle being touched for one more second. Even making him lick it all off Bert’s face. Bert’s cock twitches in his jeans, hard at just the thought, and he moans around Quinn’s dick.

Quinn’s fingers still, tighten in Bert’s hair. “Bert,” he gasps. “M’gonna –” and Bert moans again, tightens his spit-slick grip at the base of Quinn’s cock, and twists. He tilts his head back as best he can, watches the tendons cord in Quinn’s neck, his arms. Watches Quinn watching _him_ , watches the way he forces his eyes to stay open when he comes, like otherwise Bert’ll disappear into some kind of fever dream.

Quinn yanks Bert off of his dick so fast Bert can’t swallow properly, and come drips down his chin. Quinn licks it off, shoves his tongue into Bert’s mouth, and Bert tries to pull Quinn’s shirt off, his pants farther down, _anything_ , just – more naked. More naked is a good plan.

Quinn laughs and shoves Bert down onto the bed. “Turn over,” he says, and scrabbles under Bert’s pillow for the lube. Bert pulls his pants down and rolls over, humping the bed a few times before Quinn grabs his hips, forces him still. Bert can feel the press of Quinn’s teeth at the curve of his ass, the heat of Quinn’s breath up his spine, and he shivers.

The press of Quinn’s first finger is cold, insistent. Dirty. Bert _loves_ that, loves anything dirty. Sex is messy, why try to stop that? Two fingers, carefully, pushing and twisting, and Bert starts humping the mattress so enthusiastically Quinn adds the third finger quickly, the fourth finger quicker, and Bert whines high in the back of his throat and comes all over the sheets, his stomach.

Quinn settles on top of him, puts kisses to the back of his neck, light bites on his shoulders. When Bert feels settled enough to stop thrashing he turns around and kisses Quinn on the mouth. Hard and wet and messy, running his tongue all along Quinn’s teeth.

“On the plus side,” Quinn finally says. “That was so quick, I’m pretty sure we’ve got time for round two before you run off to your doom.”

“Doom doom doom,” Bert mutters under this breath. “Doomy doomy doom.”

“Don’t die singing the Doom Song, please. It might be too funny for me to mourn properly,” Quinn says, only a little strained.

If this goes right, Bert’s going to try to take down Beckett with come leaking out of his ass. Talk about funny. There’s irony somewhere there, he’s sure.

“I’ll try to come back,” he promises, because he means it. “Or send you a message, at least.”

Quinn hums unhappily, and Bert sighs.

“Quinn,” Bert says, poking him back awake. “Quinnie, Quinn, I _lied_.”

Quinn scrunches up his nose and rolls his eyes. “About what?”

“I only know thirty-six ways to kill a man,” he says, eyes wide.

“Freak,” he says fondly, bleach-blond hair in a messy tangle all over Bert’s pillow. And even though Bert’s possibly running off to his doom, he’s never been happier.

“I love you too,” he whispers, and Quinn half-smiles, already partially asleep.


	4. they still can't erase you

Tom got stupid. He realizes that. He shouldn’t have gone back that quickly. Even when they thought it was Jon. Even when they took Jon off the floor. Everyone was going to be on high alert for a while… but it wasn’t like Brendon was ever going to say anything, he thought. He was _sure_. He’s just too fucking greedy, sometimes. It’s a flaw. What may now end up a fatal one, when it turns out to be a sting – of course, should have expected that. Bryar was a cop.

Bryar’s punch makes him woozy. His jaw’s not broken, but he nearly passes out. Andy and Mixon drag him to Beckett’s office. Hands zipped behind him.

“Was it better?” Beckett asks briskly. “Because he didn’t struggle?”

Siska backhands him. It should probably knock him over, but the chairs in Beckett’s office are heavy. Expensive.

“Better?” Tom spits, once he can feel his jaw again. Blood splattering all over Beckett’s expensive, fair trade bamboo floors. “It didn’t make it _better_ , no. But it made it easier.”

Beckett looks at Tom like someone would look at shit on the bottom of their shoe. “I see.”

“Disgusting,” Siska says quietly, and something in Tom snaps.

“Disgusting? Don’t give me that. I’m worse than some fat rich guy he thinks he’s in love with for all of a _day_? And did you think this wasn’t going to happen? Honestly?” he says. Siska’s fist tightens, like he’s holding back the urge to hit Tom again. He won’t, though. Beckett’s got him on a short leash. Beckett had all of them on a short leash. “All these pretty boys, beautiful girls, walking around half naked, dumb as a box of rocks? You tell them to jump, they ask how high? You tell them to shut up, and they do? Jesus. I probably wasn’t even the first.”

Beckett gives him a shrewd look. “Perhaps not. But certainly the first dumb enough to get caught.” He turns around and walks back to his desk. “We’re done here. Have Dr. Wentz see if he’s in good enough shape for the Attic. I believe you know what to do, otherwise. Then call Mr. Hurley. There are holes in security that need looking after.”

“Yes, sir,” Siska all but purrs, and Tom sees a fist coming towards his face before – nothing. Darkness.

And if he ever wakes up again, it’s not as Tom Conrad.

| |

Jon is eating breakfast with Spencer and Ryan. It’s banana pancakes, which Jon mostly likes. He gives the banana slices to Spencer and steals half a pancake in retaliation. Spencer likes the bananas better anyway.

Brendon likes banana pancakes best of all, though. He’s running late from his appointment with Pete. Jon wonders if maybe he should save a pancake for Brendon, just in case.

“Should I save a pancake?” he asks, aloud. “For Brendon, if he’s too late.”

“He loves pancakes,” Spencer agrees.

Ryan sets his fork down. “He can have mine.”

Spencer frowns, knocks his elbow into Ryan’s side. “Pete says you’re supposed to eat more.”

“He didn’t say it had to be banana pancakes,” Ryan says stubbornly. “Everyone knows I hate banana pancakes.”

It’s true. Ryan complains every time they have them. Pete asks every week, like he expects the answer to change, and looks surprised when it doesn’t.

“You should still eat,” Spencer insists. “So you can be your best.” He looks at Ryan from under his eyebrows, like Beckett does sometimes, and Ryan picks up his fork again.

“Why do I have to be my best anyway?” he grumbles, and spears a slice of banana.

“Because it’s what you _do_ , Ryan,” Brendon says cheerily, finally throwing himself into his regular chair next to Ryan. “Morning, Spencer! Morning, Jon!”

“Hi Brendon.” Jon smiles when Brendon’s beaming grin focuses on him. “You missed banana pancakes, but I saved you one.” He slides his tray in front of Brendon, who manages – somehow – to grin even wider.

“ _Jon_. Jon, you are my favorite!” Brendon crows, before digging into the pancakes. “Except for the pancakes. Pancakes are my real favorite.”

Ryan gives Brendon a blank look. “This morning you said painting was your favorite.”

“Painting _was_ my favorite, this morning. I don’t want the same favorite all the time. That would be… that would be _boring_.”

Jon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand Brendon sometimes.

In a few moments, a guy with shaggy brown hair comes down the stairs from Pete’s office and sets his hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “Brendon? When you’re done with breakfast, Ray wants to see you.”

“H’okay,” Brendon slurs, trying to talk about a mouthful of banana pancake. “Be right there.” The shaggy-haired man smiles and nods before heading back upstairs.

“Who’s that?” Ryan asks, part-curious, part-suspicious.

“His name’s Shane,” Brendon says brightly. “He’s my new friend.”

Spencer and Ryan look at each other, lips turning down into almost-frowns. Jon is confused. What’s wrong with new friends?

“Do you like him?” Spencer asks. “Is he nice?”

Brendon shrugs. “He’s my new friend.”

And they all go back to their pancakes.

| |

Brendon goes away for a while. Jon only notices because they were supposed to paint together, and only Spencer and Ryan are here. Brendon really likes to paint. Ryan does too, but on himself sometimes – on Brendon too, when he asks, which makes Spencer make clucking noises and shake his head, so his hair moves back and forth all by itself. Jon thinks that part is pretty fun, actually.

Brendon joins them after Jon has already made one painting. Shane comes with him, and goes to stand near the railing with their other friends. Brendon starts to paint a tree. What could _possibly_ be a tree. Jon thinks it’s more polite not to ask.

“Do you like Shane better than Tom?” Spencer asks cautiously after a moment. “Is he a better friend?”

Brendon looks confused. “Who’s Tom?”

Ryan looks up from his painting. “Tom. Your old friend, Tom. He went away?”

“I don’t know a Tom,” Brendon says, and hums a little under his breath.

Jon stops painting. Ryan’s hand is tightening on the paintbrush, until his knuckles turn white.

“But he made you cry,” Ryan insists. “Brendon, he...”

Brendon looks at them all blankly. “I don’t remember.”

“He made you _cry_ ,” Ryan insists again, fist crinkling up the paper he just finished painting. There are smears of red and blue all over his fingers now, leaving purples splotches all over the table. “He made you cry, Brendon, you cried every night.”

Brendon just looks more confused, now. Almost angry. “I don’t. I don’t remember crying.”

Ryan slams his paper down onto the table. Now he looks like _he’s_ going to cry. “I remember.”

“I don’t,” Brendon says, gently, and reaches over to take the picture out of Ryan’s fist. “You crumpled your pretty picture all up. Don’t get mad, Ryan.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He picks up his paintbrush. Maybe if he paints something happy, he’ll feel better.

Spencer reaches over and taps Jon’s foot with his own. Gently, since Jon’s wearing flip-flops again. Jon likes flip-slops. He carefully taps back, and feels a little more like smiling.

| |

The next day at breakfast, Jon puts one hand under the table, letting his knuckles graze just the side of Spencer’s thigh.

Spencer turns to look at him, eyes widening. “Jon?”

Jon lets his hand drop in between them. After a moment, Spencer drops his. Jon feels Spencer’s nails scrape the back of his hand, trailing down until Spencer’s fingers are lined up just so with his. Jon curls his fingers around Spencer’s, tightens his grip until he can feel the beat of Spencer’s pulse against his.

“It’s nice,” Spencer says, blushing, before he looks away, and Jon is enchanted just watching the color rise in his face.

“It is,” he agrees, and swings their hands a little, just to get Spencer to look at him again and smile.

Ryan makes a face at them, while Brendon looks entranced.

“Why are you holding Spencer’s hand?” he asks, scrunching up his nose. “Doesn’t he need his hand to eat?”

Yes, and yet –

“Because he’s my favorite,” Jon says decidedly. “I like him. I like his hand.”

Brendon’s nose is still scrunched up. “That’s weird.”

It is, Jon wants to agree. It’s new and weird and perfect anyway. He eats his breakfast with his left hand, and only lets go when Zack comes over to get him for a treatment.

| |

Jon swam thirty laps today, to be his best. Now he’s tired. He heads back to the main center of the Dollhouse, thinking maybe he’ll paint or look at a book, when he finds Spencer curled up on one of the couches. He sits down next to him. Friends shouldn’t sit alone.

“Frank’s gone,” Spencer says, utterly miserable. “He’s gone, but no one will tell me why, or where he went, or if he’s going to come back.”

Jon pats Spencer on the back, uncertainly. “Maybe he hurt himself again,” Jon says tentatively. “Like the last time he went away.”

“But Pete won’t tell me. He always tells us when Frank hurts himself, why won’t he tell me this time? We were going to swim together today,” Spencer says, sadly. His eyes are full of tears, which slip down over his cheeks. Jon puts his fingers to them, wipes them away. “Maybe he’s gone. Gone like…” Spencer shakes his head, and Jon’s chest hurts.

“Stay here, okay?” he says, and Spencer nods. “I’ll be right back.”

Jon goes up to Pete’s office. He knocks on the door timidly, then goes in anyway. “You need to fix him,” he announces.

Pete keeps typing. “Oh yeah? Fix who?”

“Spencer,” Jon says firmly. “He’s broken.”

Pete turns his chair around, raises an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“Spencer’s broken,” Jon repeats. “Frank is gone and Spencer’s sad. Broken.” Pete will fix him. Pete will help him. That’s what you do, get help for your friends.

“Huh. Can you hold that thought for me?” Pete picks up the phone. “Siska? Yeah, put Beckett on the line.”

“How do you hold a thought?” Jon asks, and puts one hand to his head. Pete makes a spastic hand gesture at him, and Jon puts his hand down.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “I know you’re busy with this Frank and Bob business, but trust me, you’ll want to hear this.”

| |

Jon is looking at a book. Or pretending to, mostly. He doesn’t feel like doing much of anything. Ryan comes and sits next to him after a while. Jon lets Ryan flip listlessly through the pages.

“He’s crying again,” Ryan finally says, and Jon looks over at where Brendon is sitting, alone. “Every night, after lights out. I hear him crying in his pod.” Ryan worries the inside of his lip with his teeth. “Should we get Pete to fix him?”

“No,” Jon says, certainly. He thinks of when Pete fixed Spencer. How when Spencer came back he wasn’t sad anymore, but he wasn’t _Spencer_. He didn’t remember Frank. He sat with Patrick at lunch instead of Ryan for three days, until Ryan asked Spencer to join them, smiling with sad eyes. Jon spent most of lunch just staring at him, because he wasn’t the right Spencer – he was too quiet, and he didn’t smile the same way, and he didn’t hold Jon’s hand underneath the table. “He’s doesn’t need fixing, we’ll just… _we_ can take care of him,” he stresses. “We’re his friends, right?”

“Right,” Ryan says, and straightens up a little. “Right. Brendon, hey Brendon, let’s go play checkers!”

Brendon smiles a little when Ryan comes over, and Jon watches as Shane and Gabe head down the walkway further into the Dollhouse.

| |

Later, Jon has another treatment. He wakes up in Pete’s office. Pete is at his desk, typing furiously on the computer. He looks up when Jon moves, and smiles. It’s not as wide as Pete’s smiles used to be.

“Hello, Jon. How are you feeling?”

Jon frowns. “Tired.”

Pete freezes mid-clack. “Tired?”

“Tired,” Jon agrees. “I thought I fell asleep?”

Pete starts to relax, a little. “For a little while. Do you want me to schedule a massage for you? It you’re so tired.”

“Massages are relaxing,” Jon says. “Shall I go?”

“If you like.” Pete comes over to the chair. “I’ll set that massage up for you, dude. Why don’t you wait outside the door?”

Jon obediently waits outside the door. For a minute, or maybe two. Then he gets a little antsy and starts to wander towards the massage room.

Spencer just finished getting a massage. He’s lying facedown on the table, napping, with only a towel over the bottom half of him.

Things go fuzzy when Jon looks at Spencer. Warm. He wonders if he’s getting sick again, like the time Pete had to give him a shot. But he doesn’t mind it, the warm feeling. He’s more aware of himself, lately. His body. Like there was something he was cut off from before.

“Jon?” Ryland asks, smiling. “Are you ready for your massage? You can get changed here.”

“Okay,” he says, and steps behind the screen.

He sees Spencer again later, in the showers before they go to sleep. Spencer smiles at him, a special smile – Jon doesn’t know why it’s special, or how it’s even different from Spencer’s other smiles, but he knows it is.

And he knows, suddenly, that this is not what showers are supposed to be like. They should be smaller. For just one person, or for two to be close. Jon would like to be close to Spencer like that.

He doesn’t know what this is, the feeling he has. What he wants. He doesn’t have a word for it.

And he’s so tired of not having words for the things he feels.

| |

One day Ryan frowns, sets his painting down on the table, and proclaims that everything is all wrong.

Spencer tilts his head to the side. “Well. Purple _was_ an interesting choice.”

“Not the picture,” Ryan says irritably. “ _This_ is wrong. This place. This. It’s just _wrong_. Why do we never see the sky, or the sun? Why are there never any flowers? Why don’t we have any families?”

“Families?” Jon says. Families, they… no one has a family, here.

“A mom. A… a _dad_ ,” Ryan stutters. “Or sisters, or brothers, or daughters or sons. We don’t have any. Nobody has any. How can nobody have a family?”

“I have a sister,” Brendon says quietly. “Her name’s Kara.”

They’re all quiet, a minute.

“See,” Jon says uncertainly. “Brendon has a sister.”

“Then where is she?” Ryan asks, voice growing louder. Spencer puts one hand on Ryan’s arm, quick, and Ryan settles down. Quick enough that nobody’s looking. “I just mean… I have all these _questions_ ,” Ryan says miserably. “And nobody ever has any answers.”

Jon feels a sudden, deep empathy. “I never have the words,” he says. “I feel things sometimes, like I know them, but…”

“But there are no words,” Ryan finishes.

“And why _aren’t_ there words?” Jon asks, hushed. “I want… I _want_ the words,” he says emphatically, looking at Spencer. “I want all the words. I want everything.”

| |

Breakfast is banana pancakes. Brendon eats a plateful, and then half of Ryan’s. Ryan eats the remaining pancakes and gives the banana slices to Spencer. Spencer gives Jon one of his pancakes to make it all fair, sort of, and slips his hand under the table, brushing Jon’s thigh as he does so.

Jon freezes, and slowly slides his hand underneath the table too. Spencer twines his fingers carefully amongst Jon’s, and smiles shyly.

“Is this… is this okay?” Spencer asks.

Jon responds by setting his foot on top of Spencer’s. Tapping their toes together. “It’s okay.”

And he ducks his head down to smile into his pancakes.

| |

Something is happening.

There’s a loud noise going on and off, and strange people everywhere, and even though everyone is saying nothing is wrong Jon knows that something is. Chiz is trying to get them to go to bed, even though no one wants to go.

“But we haven’t had our showers,” Brendon insists. “We always have our showers before bed, we—”

“Please,” Chiz says. “Get into your pods. Everything’ll be fine when you wake up.” He takes Brendon’s arm, and Brendon’s face crumples as he steps into the pod.

It won’t, Jon thinks. It won’t be fine. Chiz tries to take his arm, and Jon suddenly… he can’t –

“No,” he says, and slams his curled-up hand in Chiz’s face. “ _No_.” Chiz falls to the floor – kind of asleep, but kind of not – more uncomfortable, maybe, Jon doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he just did. He doesn’t know where that came from.

“What did you _do_?” Brendon cries. Scared. More scared than before, and Ryan comes over to take his hand.

“We’re leaving,” Jon says. “We’re going to see the sky.”

“I’ve heard of worse plans,” someone says, and when Jon turns around there’s a man crouching on the walkway overhead with bleached blonde hair, almost as long as Greta’s. Grinning at them.

“Robert,” he hears Spencer murmur. Does Spencer know him? He and Ryan exchange looks. Spencer’s been here longer than Jon, and longer than Ryan.

“Bert, if you please,” the man says, then turns around, lightning-fast, and punches a man in the throat. “And if you want to see the sky, you’d better follow me.”

Ryan clambers up the walkway first, dragging Brendon behind him. Spencer takes Jon’s hand.

“Do you think…” Spencer says, and Jon smiles.

“It’s going to be beautiful,” he replies, and they run after Bert as fast as they can.


End file.
